


Something I Need

by HildegardtheB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Build, Slow Burn, break ups, sad Jaime, soft jaime, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 14:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HildegardtheB/pseuds/HildegardtheB
Summary: Jaime finally breaks up with his toxic girlfriend -- for good this time -- maybe -- possibly not -- no one really knows.  Brienne helps him through it yet again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, a couple of warnings here. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can only take Brienne’s insecurity and self-degradation so much before I want to burn this whole world down for making her feel so lacking. I often get to the point where I literally can’t hear her put herself down one more time or hear a narrative voice once again refer to her as ugly. It hurts my heart too much because, gods help me, I love the wench. So this fic has a much more self-assured Brienne of Tarth. Think of Brienne’s morality and stalwart loyalty, with a little of Gwendoline Christie’s chaotic snarkiness and confidence thrown in for good measure. 
> 
> I’m also quite fond of Tormund “Fuck Tradition” Giantsbane, and he and Brienne are together in the early chapters of this fic. Terribly sorry if that is a deal breaker for you. And, as long as we are on the subject of deal breakers, I can’t in good conscious let the incest storyline play out in this modern world. What could possibly work in a medieval setting, I just can’t make work in a modern one -- thus Jaime and Cersei are not at all related in this. 
> 
> Now, if I haven’t scared you off yet, please enjoy. The title is from the One Republic song “Something I Need” -- the ultimate Jaime and Brienne song. I’ve included lyrics at the start of every chapter. 
> 
> Dusts off my Ygritte voice -- “I own nothing, Jon Snow.”

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

**I had the week that came from hell**

**And yes, I know that you could tell**

One Republic “Something I Need”

  
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“She’s a shit, Jaime.”

“I know,” he said, closing his eyes tiredly and leaning back against the couch.

“Honestly, your relationship was a trainwreck from start to end, if this, indeed, is the end of it -- and let it be known, I have my doubts.”

“Oh, it’s the fucking end all right,” he growled.

“Yeah,” Brienne deadpanned. “Well, you’ll pardon me for hedging my bets, but I’ve heard that before.”

“She cheated on me!” His voice was indignant, his angry gaze turned toward Brienne.

“Yes,” Brienne conceded. “But that’s nothing new, Jaime.” She reached out to brush his hair away from where it had fallen roguishly into his eyes, but he batted her hand away annoyed. “She’s cheated on you before.”

“Not with my fucking cousin!” Jaime spit out. “How could she? I mean, what kind of person does that?”

“Cersei obviously,” Brienne replied dully. She was having this conversation again -- for what felt like the millionth time. It was the same old story. Jaime and Cersei were always fighting. Jaime was always leaving. And then Jaime was always going back. It was getting old, really; and Brienne didn’t know if she had it in her to once again be the shoulder Jaime cried on before ultimately running back home to his toxic and incredibly fucked-up girlfriend. Brienne sighed wearily.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Brienne. Am I boring you?” Jaime growled, his voice on edge. “Is this,” he gestured to himself, “not enough pain to elicit your sympathy?” He huffed, offended. “Really, could you be any more unaffected by my plight, wench?”

Brienne rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “Jaime, you are once again being the drama queen that you swear to the Seven you’re not.” She pushed against his shoulder fondly, before reaching over to grab his hand. “Don’t take your anger out on me. I’m in your corner. I’ve been in your corner for a long, long time and will probably still be in your corner when you are eighty-seven years old, and you call me to come pick you up at the nursing home because you are leaving Cersei -- and this time for good.”

“Stop,” Jaime winced, his eyes red rimmed.

“No, I’m serious. I don’t mean to make you feel like your pain doesn’t matter,” Brienne soothed, scooting over and bridging the distance between them on the couch. “Your pain is of the utmost importance to me. You are of the utmost importance to me. That’s why it’s so difficult for me to see you hurt time and time again and then see you take her back time and time again.” She reached out and rubbed the pad of her thumb under his eye, smoothing an errant tear that had fallen. “I wish I knew what to say to make you believe that you are worth so much more than what she is willing to give you. I wish I knew what to do to make you believe that you can get away from her -- that you can, in fact, exist without her. But I don’t Jaime. I feel helpless, and if that comes across as callousness, I truly apologize.”

Jaime gave her watery smile. “No, I’m sorry, wench,” he mumbled. “I’m just … tired of all of this.”

“I know,” Brienne said softly.

The doorbell rang, and Brienne patted Jaime’s hand and got up to answer it. That would be Tor coming with take-away and beer. Tonight was their regularly scheduled movie night, and it was Tormund’s pick. Apparently, he had chosen some old movie about Vikings replete with massive violence and over-the-top gore which he assured Brienne she would love. He was also picking up kebabs from that Dothraki place on the corner by his work. Brienne had been looking forward to it all week. Ah well, Tor would understand. He had seen Jaime like this often enough.

Sure enough, after a quick kiss hello and a whispered conversation with Brienne, Tormund lumbered into the living room, lowering his hulking mass heavily onto the couch next to Jaime, while Brienne popped into the kitchen to divide the kebabs three ways. “I’m really sorry, mate,” Tormund said, squeezing Jaime’s shoulder in one of his meaty paws. His red hair was standing up in a wild tumble, but his blue eyes were sympathetic.

“What are you sorry about? You refer to her as ‘the bitch who shall not be named,’” Jaime replied flatly.

“Aye, lad, but she’s your bitch who shall not be named. Doesn’t make it any easier now, does it?”

“No,” Jaime said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Here,” Tormund twisted the cap off of a bottle of beer and handed it to Jaime. He did the same for himself. “To Love,” he said, holding his bottle aloft. “She’s a ruthless cunt, but where would we be without her?” He knocked his bottle against Jaime’s and then glanced besottedly over at Brienne who was arranging plates of greasy takeout.

“Perhaps in a healthy mental state for once,” Jaime quipped, taking a long draw from his beer.

Tormund laughed. “Nay, lad, you just need to find a good one -- and there’s plenty of those out there.” He reached out and ruffled Jaime’s hair fondly. “Free yourself from whatever bullshit she has over you. And then get back out in the world. You’ll be fine. You’re a strong lad and rich, and, as I hear tell from Brienne, prettier than a maiden’s dream.”

“Tormund!” Brienne protested, setting the plates down on the coffee table and coming around to perch on the armrest of the couch by her boyfriend. “Gods don’t encourage him. He’ll be insufferable.”

Jaime looked up with a slight smirk. His face still looked wrecked, but a little of the old, sly Jaime was breaking through the fissures. “Than a maiden’s dream? Do tell, wench.”

“What?” Brienne huffed indignantly. “You know that you’re pretty. You tell anyone who will listen. You told my father on the phone just the other day.”

Jaime sputtered, but Tormund cut him off. “Like I said, with your many talents, Lannister, I don’t think you’ll have any problem out there.” He reached over and swatted Jaime’s head none too lightly. “Nay, I think your only problem is in here, lad.” He finished his beer in one giant swig and then burped loudly. “Get her out of your head, mate. She’s not worth it.”

“I know,” Jaime said despondently. He rubbed his face and looked over at Brienne. “I do know that. I’m not stupid, you know -- despite what Cersei says.”

“I never said you were stupid,” Brienne replied.

“Yes, but you think I’ll go back to her so …” he broke off, shaking his head.

“Jaime.”

“No, it’s OK,” Jaime replied, his face shuttered. “I always do go back to her. I always can’t quite help it.”

“Look,” Brienne said coming around the coffee table to kneel beside Jaime. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Jaime. I truly don’t. I think you’re trapped in a really unhealthy relationship that’s difficult to end. And I may not always support your choices, but I’ll always support you, Jaime Lannister. Always.”

He looked down, refusing to meet her gaze.

“And if you really want to break it off with Cersei for good this time, I will be there every step of the way with you.” She gestured to Tormund. “We both will.”

“Aye,” Tormund replied. “Whatever ye need, lad. I’ll take you out carousing or get ye blind drunk.” He reached over and pushed on Jaime’s shoulder, accidentally knocking Jaime over onto the couch arm. “I’ll even watch those sappy movies Brienne’s always jawing on about and eat gallons of ice cream with you.”

Jamie smiled at that. “Thanks,” he said softly. He nodded at Tormund and reached out to take Brienne’s hand and give it a squeeze. In all honesty, it could be worse. Before he had met Brienne, Jaime had nowhere to go when things got heated with Cersei. In the not so distant past, he had spent many a night in random hotel rooms drowning his sorrows in the mini bar. But now there was Brienne to catch him when he inevitably fell. There was always Brienne … and, apparently these days, there was Tormund too. Glancing down at the coffee table and at the plates of take away, Jaime suddenly realized that he had interrupted what looked to be a date night. Shit, Lannister. Poor timing. But there was nothing he could do now. He had left home with nothing, and there was no way he was going back. He cleared his throat nervously. “Uh... what I truly need right now is a place to stay temporarily.” He looked over at Brienne, hating himself for his pleading tone. “Any chance I could stay here tonight...um...maybe more than tonight?”

Brienne smiled. “The bed in the spare room is already made up for you, and I put some trackies and a t-shirt on the dresser top. You can stay as long as you need, of course.”

Jaime felt his eyes fill again, and he blinked back the tears before they could fall. “Thanks,” he said raggedly.

In the end, he took his plate of kebabs back to his room with him. Brienne and Tormund had encouraged him to stay and talk or watch a movie or, at the very least, drink. However, it had been a shit day, and Jaime just wanted it to be over.

He set his dinner on the dresser, not at all hungry, and changed out of his clothes. In the hall bathroom, he found that Brienne had set out a new toothbrush and towel for him. Gods, what did it say when your best friend kept spare pajamas and toothbrushes ready to go for you in the likely event that your girlfriend kicked you out? Damn, he really was pathetic. He brushed his teeth and used the facilities.

On the way back to his room, he heard Brienne and Tormund talking quietly in the living room. Brienne said something, and Tormund laughed softly. A few minutes later a dramatic theme song started playing against the sounds of swords and battle. Jaime shuffled back to his room. Fucking date night. Fucking happy couple. Fucking love.

Sighing, he turned off the light and willed his brain to stop thinking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition, with a side of exposition, covered in some lovely exposition. Oh, and Jaime’s dream!

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** _I had a dream the other night_ **

** _About how we only get one life_ **

** _Woke me up right after two_ **

** _Stayed awake and stared at you_ **

** _So I wouldn’t lose my mind _ **

** _ One Republic "Something I Need"_ **

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Jaime met Cersei at thirteen years old. They were both the firstborn prodigies of wealthy, noble houses, and because of this, much was expected of them. They had initially bonded over the unfairness of it all, nicking a bottle of wine from behind the bar at some high society function and drinking it against the garden wall -- complaining all the while about expectations and propriety and house codes, their thoughts and tongues heavy with rich, Dornish red. 

Cersei Martell was beautiful -- every bit as beautiful as Jaime and that was saying a great deal. Lithe and golden with blonde hair and green, flashing eyes, Cersei was the embodiment of every teenage boy’s fantasy. And, if Jaime were being honest, the fact that she looked so much like him made him even more besotted. Indeed, they looked so similar that people often mistook them for siblings. Tyrion, Jaime’s little brother, used to tease him about it relentlessly, calling Jaime Narcissus and referring to Cersei as “your bloody reflection,” as in, “Your bloody reflection is a bitch, Jaime. I don’t know what you see in her. Wait! I do! Yourself!” Jaime didn’t care though. He’d take the snarky remarks and snide comments about being whipped. He was wonderfully, passionately, and magically in love with the girl of his dreams. 

Aside from Tyrion, their families were ecstatic. The Lannisters and Martells could not have asked for a better high-born match. It was assumed that a marriage was inevitable. However surprisingly, Cersei had been the one to drag her feet. She had not wanted to get married young. “There will be time for that, darling,” she had told Jaime over and over. “We’re young. We need to experience what this world has to offer.” Of course, Jaime had agreed. Jaime always agreed. That’s what Cersei insisted on. However, he had no idea that “experiencing what this world had to offer” meant Cersei cheating on him. 

Honestly, looking back, Jaime didn’t know if Cersei had ever been truly faithful to him. She had always had a faint air of duplicity about her which he had just chalked up to her overwhelming mysteriousness. Yes there had been red flags, but Jaime had stubbornly refused to acknowledge them, turning a blind eye to Cersei’s numerous and elaborate excuses for why she was late, why she couldn’t meet with him, why she had to cancel plans. And it had only gotten worse when they had moved in together after university. Jaime had naively expected that moving in together would solve all of their problems. Cersei would finally take their commitment seriously. Why else would she agree to combine households, pledge her troth to him? However, he had been gravely mistaken. Although they shared a house and a bed, once Cersei moved in, she always seemed to be poised on the edge of leaving. In turn Jaime, desperate for her, felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells trying to convince her to stay -- to convince her that he was, in fact, worth staying for. And then there was the incident with Aerys Targaryen, heir to the Targaryen fortune and self-proclaimed King of King’s Landing. 

The papers had had a field day with that one -- although no one, except the parties involved, really knew what had actually happened. For his part, Jaime had been forced to sign a nondisclosure agreement, promising not to discuss the incident. He had been glad to do it at the time, grateful to escape with only a year of probation and community service. But the rumors had been out of control. The main theory batted around was that Cersei and Aerys were in the midst of a torrid affair when Jaime found out. Something had happened, some confrontation, and as a result, Aerys had been found in his bedroom, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit, beaten almost to death. The papers had been highly critical of Jaime’s lax sentencing. They accused the Lannisters of buying their way past justice -- referring to Jaime in their headlines as the Kingslayer and publishing every mistake and bad decision Jaime had ever made. It didn’t help that, seven months later, Aerys had jumped out of the fifth story window of the rehab facility in which he was currently residing, cementing himself (and Jaime by proxy) a place in the infamous lore of King’s Landing. The King is dead. Long live the King. Oh, and fuck the Kingslayer, while everyone’s at it. 

The one bright spot in the whole hellish experience was that Cersei had come running back to Jaime, professing her undying love and devotion. She promised she was a changed woman -- ready to commit, to settle down and start a family. She wanted to get married right away, was well into planning the wedding, in fact, when Jaime had found her in a compromising position in their bed with Osmund Kettleblack. Jaime had left once again; and it was during this time that he had become friends with Brienne Tarth. 

They had met across a table in the chambers of Judge Petyr Baelish. Jaime was there as a representative of Lannister Industries, surrounded on all sides by Tywin Lannister’s cadre of slick, corporate barristers. Brienne was on the other side of the table with her clients, a ragtag citizen’s group who was trying to obtain an injunction against Lannister Industries to prevent them from developing land on the site of an estuary and wetlands populated by endangered birds. As an environmental barrister, Brienne was good -- really, really good. She was whip smart, calm in the face of attack, and had an uncanny ability to recall every environmental law and legal precedent on the books. 

When she had walked in, all six foot six of her in heels, Jaime had tried to land an easy blow, making a disparaging crack about her height and the breadth of her monumental shoulders. However, instead of being cowed, Brienne had stepped over to him, right into his personal space, staring down at him mildly and letting him experience her significant height up close. 

“Ah,” she had said with a half smile, extending her hand. “The legendary Kingslayer, in the flesh. Come to do Daddy’s dirty work did you? Should I stay away from the windows? We are rather high up.” 

He had learned then not to underestimate her. Learned it again when she had managed, against all odds, to get the damn injunction. His father had been livid, but Jaime had been intrigued. 

The next time he had seen Brienne was at a silent auction in support of some environmental cause. He was reluctantly there to help promote the public image of Lannister Industries whose environmental scorecard was dismal at best and nefarious at worst. Brienne had been wearing a silvery blue thing that night and had her white blonde hair pulled back, except for a soft fall across the right side of her face. She had looked all the world like some marble statue come to life. Jaime had tried speaking to her, turning on the surefire Lannister charm, but she had not been impressed. Oh, she had been polite and pleasant but had excused herself quickly to go speak to a sad group of poorly dressed women who were hovering on the outskirts of the fête. 

The third time Jaime had met Brienne was right after he had left Cersei during the Kettleblack fiasco. He had been staying at a hotel, wounded and raw, venturing out only for work and food. Finally, thoroughly disgusted with how pathetic his life had become at the tender, old age of thirty-one, Jaime had forced himself to go to a weekend matinee double feature at the cinema. _ King Arthur _ was playing, followed by _ Gawain and the Green Knight _. Imagine his surprise when the only other person in the theater was a tall, blonde woman with the biggest carton of popcorn he had ever seen. It took all of the courage he could muster, but Jaime had approached and sat down in the seat next to her in the empty theater. She had turned to him, chagrin written clearly on her face. However, she must have read the sadness and desperation in his expression because, instead of asking him to move or telling him off, she had simply shrugged and offered him popcorn. 

After the movies, he had suggested pizza and beer, and surprisingly, she had agreed. They had discussed everything that night -- the movies they had just watched (they both admitted to being obsessed with knights as kids); Brienne’s job in environmental law; his job at Lannister Industries; her childhood on Tarth; his back at the Rock; their siblings (Brienne’s were no longer living, and Jaime often wished his wasn’t either); familial pressures (she was the sole heir to her family’s vast lands back on Tarth); her obsession with running and fitness; his obsession with fast cars and good bourbon. The comradery came easily. Jaime didn’t have to try at all -- didn’t have to second guess himself or walk on eggshells. In fact, when they finally parted ways in the dark hours of the morning, Jaime had been absolutely certain that Brienne Tarth was well on her way to becoming his very best friend -- his only friend, really. And he was right. 

Oh, Cersei had inevitably complicated things. Jaime had ultimately gone back to her. Jaime was always going to go back to her. However, luckily for him, Brienne’s friendship was not conditional. Sure she thought he was an idiot for taking Cersei back, but as long as Jaime kept the two women away from each other, Brienne tolerated it. She wouldn’t make him choose -- partly because she was far too good a person for that and partly because she knew whom he would choose. 

Once established, his friendship with Brienne had opened Jaime up to a whole other world -- one in which he wasn’t completely alone. Jaime’s childhood had been a lonely existence of boarding schools and formal, family functions. And then, once he and Cersei were together, his whole world was Cersei. However, little by little, as his friendship with Brienne had progressed, Brienne’s friends had become his own. 

At first they had been wary. There were a few whispered “Kingslayers” behind his back, or, in the case of Drogo, in front of his face. However, Brienne had vouched for him and had kept vouching for him, and soon Jaime found himself grudgingly accepted into the fold. His social circle now remarkably included Sansa and Margery, who worked at the same law office as Brienne; Pod, Brienne’s assistant; Loras and Renly, Brienne’s friends from university; Drogo, her running buddy; and most recently, Tormund Giantsbane, a Wildling contractor from Beyond-the-Wall. 

Brienne and Tormund had been dating for almost a year now. At first, Jaime had not been a fan. The Wildling seemed the absolute opposite of Brienne -- brash, aggressive, ridiculously inappropriate. However, Brienne seemed to completely delight in him. It didn’t make any sense to Jaime, and he had stubbornly told Brienne just that. Brienne had simply ruffled Jaime’s hair fondly and told him not to be jealous. When he had vehemently protested, Brienne had assured him that she had room enough in her heart and in her life for both Jaime and Tormund, and perhaps Jaime shouldn’t be so critical of other people’s significant others -- pot and kettle and all that. He had stormed away in a huff. However, after some time spent sulking, Jaime had observed Brienne and Tormund together and had decided that maybe he had been hasty in his initial assessment of the Wildling. Yes, Tormund was brash and uncultured, but he was fiercely loyal and protective of Brienne. He was her number one supporter, save for Jaime, of course. And Brienne was happy, which was all that really mattered in the end. No, Jaime could live with Wildling. Hells, if Brienne could put up with Cersei, Jaime should be able to tolerate any boyfriend she threw his way.

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................

The morning after he had caught Cersei fucking his cousin, Jamie awoke with a pounding headache. He had slept poorly, his dreams vivid and disturbing. After splashing cold water on his face, he stumbled into the kitchen in time to see Brienne back from her early morning run, her blonde hair sweaty and disheveled. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” she greeted fondly, pouring Jaime a cup of coffee and handing him the milk. “How did you sleep?”

Jaime grasped the coffee gratefully and sank down into a kitchen chair. “Like shit. I had the craziest dream.” He poured the milk into his cup, blew over the top of it to cool, and took a sip, sighing in relief. 

“Oh yeah?” Brienne was in the process of cutting up fruit for one of her post-run, protein smoothies. Jaime watched as her long, lean back and shoulder muscles flexed with her movements. The woman really was a well oiled machine. She had yet to take her shower and was still in her running kit, her feet bare, her toes painted an incongruous bright, neon pink. 

He took another sip of coffee. “Yeah, actually you were in it.”

Brienne turned and gave him an incredulous look. “Dare I even ask?”

“It was strange,” Jaime said, rubbing his hand down his stubbled faced. “So vivid. I was back at the Rock, in one of the underground caverns that I used to play in as a child, and my whole extended family was there.”

“So definitely a nightmare then,” Brienne quipped.

“You’re telling me,” Jaime replied. “For some reason, I was naked, and it was dark, and the darkness was… uh, I don’t know how to describe it … threatening maybe? It was like something was in the darkness, something bad. Cersei was there too.”

“Ah, this just keeps getting more and more terrifying.”

Jamie shot her an annoyed glance. “Cersei told me that I was the darkness -- that it was my darkness, and then they all disappeared, leaving me alone and a bit panicked.” He gulped his coffee. “I saw a light at the end of one of the tunnels and followed it and saw you there, naked and chained up.”

“Jaime!” Brienne cried indignant. She paused in her cutting of bananas to point the knife at him in an almost threatening gesture, but he waved away her protest and continued.

“You told me that you were sworn to protect me and that you wouldn’t let anything happen to me, so I used my sword to cut through your chains.”

“Sworn to protect you?” Brienne asked puzzled, still frowning about the naked part.

“Yes -- oh, and we both had swords that were set afire. That part was really cool. Only Cersei’s voice suddenly broke through the darkness and told me that when the sword’s flame died, I would die too.”

“Sounds slightly ominous,” Brienne mused. “And very Cersei.”

“Then all of these shadowy figures whom I couldn’t really see clearly but I knew just the same surrounded us. I looked over at you, and my sword went out. But yours still flamed brightly. You stepped forward in front of me.” He shook his head. “And then I woke up.”

“All right,” Brienne joked. “No more Dothraki barbecue before bed for you, young man.”

“I didn’t even eat it,” Jaime replied. He let his head fall into his hands. “So what do you think it means?”

“I think it means that you are under a great deal of stress, and your poor, muddled brain is trying to process it.” She dumped the fruit into the blender and added milk and protein powder, pushing the “on” button. Once the smoothie was blended, she poured it out into two tall glasses and handed one to Jamie. “I also think it means that you don’t quite understand that there are some pretty solid lines that should not be crossed when one is involved in a friendship.” She looked at him sternly. 

“What are you going on about now, wench?” Jamie asked perplexed, taking a large gulp of smoothie. It was actually quite good. He had definitely had worse. 

“Gods. I cannot believe that I am actually having to say this, Jamie, but you are not allowed to dream of me naked.” 

Jamie laughed and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was asleep, wench! I can’t control what happens in my sleep.” 

“Fine then. You shouldn’t tell me about it, in any case.”

“It wasn’t that kind of dream, Brienne,” Jaime laughed. He smirked knowingly. “Although you did look quite fit. I’ve always wondered how far the freckles go.”

“Oh piss off!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jaime apologized, holding up his hands. “I promise. No more inappropriate dreams, if I can help it.”

“Whatever,” Brienne said, her exasperation with the whole conversation evident. “You’re on watch, Lannister.” She pointed to her eyes and then back again at Jaime, before rinsing her glass and leaving to take her shower. 

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................

Brienne was halfway through her morning ablutions, scrubbing the shampoo out of her hair, when she was startled by a pounding on the bathroom door.

“Brienne!” Jaime cried, his voice panicked. “Cersei’s here. She just pulled up outside.” He banged desperately at the door. “I can’t face her, Brienne. I can’t. I’m not ready. I’m too weak. Fucking hells -- you know what will happen.”

Brienne sighed tiredly and shut off the water. She grabbed her towel, roughly running it across her hair and body. Bloody Jaime and his bloody drama. It was like living in the midst of a soap opera. “Don’t answer the door, Jaime,” she called, stepping out and grabbing her dressing gown. “I’ll handle it.”

She heard Jaime’s sigh of relief and then a thunk as he collapsed against the door. 

Pulling her dressing gown around her and cursing the fact that it was her old one from university, far too short and far too threadbare, Brienne took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

Jaime was sitting on the floor of the hallway by the bathroom door, his head cradled in his hands. He looked up at her, as she came out, his expression swiftly changing from one of anxiety to disbelief. “You’re not seriously going to confront Cersei in that, are you, wench?” he said, not able to keep the smirk off of his face when confronted by the tiny robe and acres and acres of long leg. He suddenly thought back to his dream. 

Brienne turned to him, giving him a severe look. “I was in the middle of a shower, Jaime. And let me remind you that I’m confronting your largely unstable ex because you can’t ... or won’t ... or both. I don’t think that you are in any position to be critiquing my wardrobe.”

Jaime had the grace to look contrite at that, and Brienne pulled the tie of her gown tighter, setting her face in preparation for the confrontation ahead. As she reached the door, she heard Jaime call from his place on the floor. “You know, Brienne, you really are my knight of old come to fight my battles for me. Perhaps you should lose the robe all together and confront Cersei like you did in my dream.”

“Shut it, Lannister, or Cersei won’t be the only one I fight this morning.”

“Promises, promises,” Jamie mumbled cheekily. 

....................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Cersei was just getting out of her Mercedes, when Brienne met her. “Cersei,” Brienne said, squaring her shoulders and trying not to cringe as the hem of the already short dressing gown rode up further on her thighs. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cersei stopped, her eyes going wide at the picture in front of her. She blinked, and Brienne was once again reminded that Cersei Martell was in an entirely different league. Cersei was wearing a dress of rich green with threads of gold woven in, her beautiful golden hair flowing around her shoulders gracefully. Her eyes were the same rich green, the gold flecks alight in the morning sunshine, and her pretty mouth was arranged in an incredulous smile. Standing on the crumbling walkway in front of Brienne’s flat, Cersei seemed to be glowing, almost preternaturally, and Brienne thought for the millionth time that Cersei was the most aesthetically pleasing woman she had ever seen. 

“Why, Brienne,” Cersei said, her soft, gentle voice breaking through Brienne’s admiration. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Her gaze flickered to Brienne’s attire.

“No,” Brienne replied. “Just finished a run, actually.” She reached up and tugged on the hem of her robe. “Listen, Cersei. If you are here for Jaime, he doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Brienne, don’t be silly,” Cersei said, waving her hand dismissively. “We just had a little misunderstanding.”

Brienne rolled her eyes and held her ground. “It was more than a little misunderstanding, Cersei. And, as I said, Jaime does not want to talk to you.” 

With a little, annoyed huff of breath, Cersei made to go around Brienne, but Brienne deftly sidestepped into her path. “Really, Cersei. I am completely serious. Jaime does not want to talk to you. I’m going to have to ask you to leave please ... now.”

She could see Cersei’s expression tighten, tiny lines materializing around her eyes and mouth. However, within an instant, Cersei had composed herself, her face melding back into her mask of patient concern. “Really, this is ridiculous, Brienne,” she said lightly. “As if Jaime needs you to protect him from me. He is a grown man after all.” She shook her head and smiled prettily. “Please tell Jaime to call me when he is ready to talk.”

“I will,” Brienne promised grimly.

Cersei nodded and turned to go, but, before she got to her car, she turned back, a calculating look on her face. “You mustn’t think I don’t like you, Brienne,” she said, her voice soft and empathetic. “I know you can’t help it with Jaime. I feel for you. Really I do.” She shook her head, pursing her lips sympathetically. “It must be so difficult to know that, however angry he is at me, he won’t ever choose you.”

Despite her best efforts, Brienne felt the heat suffuse her cheeks. 

Cersei smiled, acknowledging the hit. 

“That’s the difference between you and me, Cersei,” Brienne gritted out, her face burning. “I don’t want anything from him. Not one damn thing.”

Cersei laughed. “Oh, my dear girl, if you say it enough, perhaps you will convince yourself.” With that she gracefully climbed back into her car and, with a friendly wave, drove off. 

Brienne waited a few minutes, giving her face time to cool down before heading back into the house. Jamie was in the front room, a stricken look on his face. For one fraught moment Brienne was worried that he had overheard the exchange. However, there was no way he could have. The windows were tightly closed. 

“Are you all right?” Jaime asked gruffly from his perch on the couch.

“Sword’s still flaming,” Brienne replied.

Jaime smiled at that, rising to put his arms around Brienne in a fierce hug, causing her dressing gown to ride up into dangerous territory. “My hero,” he sighed. “Thank you, wench.”

“She wants you to call when you are ready to talk about your ‘little disagreement.’”

“Yes, I bet she does,” Jaime muttered releasing Brienne. 

Brienne shook her head, pulling her hem back into place. “You did the right thing, Jaime,” she said. “She doesn’t deserve you. More than that, she scares the bloody hell out of me.”

“Says the six foot three, warrior woman.”

“Yeah well, you better just hope my sword stays flaming, Lannister,” Brienne grumbled, turning to go back to her bedroom and get dressed. “If it comes down to a fight, I’m really not sure which of us would win.”

“Good always triumphs over evil, wench -- any fair maid or brave knight will tell you that.”

“Yes, but that depends largely on what one chooses doesn’t it?”

Jaime gave her a questioning look.

“If the fair maiden in question chooses evil, there is not a damn thing the brave knight can do about it.” 

Jaime opened his mouth to reply, but Brienne had already turned and was stalking down the hall. “In case you didn’t get it, Lannister,” she called back over her shoulder, “I’m the bloody knight in this scenario!”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Jaime shot back testily. 

“Good!” she shouted and slammed the door of her bedroom behind her with a resounding bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those who have taken the time to read, give kudos, and comment. You are all truly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery has an idea. Jaime is clueless. Brienne is in trouble.

** _You’ve got something I need_ **

** _In this world full of people, there’s one killing me_ **

** _One Republic "Something I Need"_ **

_........................................................................................................................................................................................................................_

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Margaery.”

“Brienne, it’s a brilliant idea,” Margaery shot back, her eyes alight with excitement. They were in the staff lounge at _ Tyrell, Tully, and Sand _, one of King’s Landing’s most renowned law firms. Sansa had just finished an early morning meeting across town and had brought back sushi for lunch. 

“He only just left her,” Brienne explained. “He’s currently in the sad moping stage of his recovery. You know the one where he goes around with impossibly haunted eyes and sighs despondently all day.”

“What better way to jar him out of it?” Margaery argued. 

“Does he really go around sighing all day?” Sansa inquired. “Gods, how do you put up with him?”

“Lots of practice,” Brienne quipped, “...and a great deal of alcohol.” She turned back to Margaery. “Pushing him into anything too early will just send him right back to Cersei.”

Sansa laughed sardonically. “Anything we do will just send him right back to Cersei. It’s Jaime.”

“Which is why this plan is perfect,” Margaery said excitedly. “Look, what we need is someone who can break Cersei’s spell -- show him what else is out there. Jeyne is the ideal candidate. She’s intelligent, funny, lovely to look at. She has a good head on her shoulders and won’t get caught up in Jaime’s bullshit. She’d be good for him.”

“And how do you suggest we convince Jaime of this?” Brienne argued. “Because I’ll tell you right now, if I even so much as mention the words ‘blind’ and ‘date’ to Jaime, he will be out the door and on his way to take The Black before the words are fully formed from my mouth.”

“No, no,” Margaery protested. “We don’t call it a date. We never call it a date. We just set up a pub night. All of us. Invite the boys for pool and darts.” She turned to Brienne. “You make sure to get Jaime there, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“Margaery,” Brienne groaned. “He’s going to kill me.”

“It will be completely casual. He’ll never even know. We’ll bump into Jeyne -- invite her to our table. We’ll all be in a big group at first. Absolutely no pressure. Then later in the evening, when everyone is comfortable, we’ll simply excuse ourselves to play a game of darts and leave Jaime and Jeyne together. They’ll hit it off. I know they will. They’ll chat, exchange numbers, start going out for coffee and the odd lunch, and then, before we know it,” she slapped her hands together smugly, “bye, bye, Cersei.” 

“It could work,” Sansa chimed in over a mouthful of tuna roll. “And gods wouldn’t it be great for him to be over her?” She turned to Brienne. “He’s never dated anyone else, has he?”

“No,” Brienne replied. “That’s why he’s so messed… well, that’s why he is the way he is.”

“All the more reason to try to break him out of her evil clutches,” Margaery grinned.

“Easy for you to say, Marg,” Brienne said. “If things go tits-up, I’m the one he’s going to destroy. It won’t be pretty.”

“You’ll be fine,” Margaery said dismissively, waving off Brienne’s protest. “Jaime’s obsessive love for Cersei is only rivaled by his obsessive love for you. He’d do anything for you.”

“You’d be surprised,” Brienne said flatly, shaking her head.

“No, my darling. You’d be surprised.” Margaery sat back, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Now, when should we do this? How about this coming Friday night? The boys are free, and Jeyne should be back from her business trip to the Riverlands by then.”

.................................................................................................................................................................................................................

It had taken some convincing, but Brienne had finally talked Jaime into pub night. Subterfuge had never been Brienne’s strongpoint, but in the end, Tormund had come to her rescue. He had roughly grabbed Jaime by the shoulders and told him to buck up and stop acting like a mooning maiden, and Jaime had reluctantly agreed to come along. 

The pub was packed, but Margaery had been able to commandeer a largish table in the corner. Drogo, Tor, and Pod had gone off almost immediately to shoot a game of pool, leaving Jaime, the girls, Renly, and Loras at the table. Conversation was lively, but Jaime was subdued. He was sitting next to Brienne, sadly nursing his pint, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“And how are things with you, Jaime?” Renly asked gently, trying to draw him into the conversation. “I’m sorry about Cersei, by the way.”

“Gods I’m not,” Loras broke in snarkily. And then when Renly shot him a biting look, “What? She’s a bitch. The sooner Jaime’s through with her, the better.”

Jaime blanched but nodded in resignation. 

“Oh, Cersei? I saw her the other day,” Pod said, popping back over to the table for his phone and catching the tail end of the conversation. “She was with Robert Baratheon. They were all over each other.”

The table fell silent. Jaime turned towards Renly, who held up his hands in a gesture of supplication. “I had no idea, Jaime. You know my brother. He goes through women like Craster goes through daughters. He’s never serious. Fuck ‘em and forget ‘em and all…”

“Not helping, Ren. Not helping,” Sansa hissed. 

“No, no,” Jaime coughed. He downed the rest of his beer in one large gulp. “It’s fine. We’re over. She can see whomever she wants. I couldn’t give a flying fuck.” Only he could. He could give a flying fuck. It was written all over his face in great big technicolor letters -- _ I Give a Flying Fuck about Cersei _. 

Brienne patted his knee under the table. “Hey, who needs another drink? Jaime? Loras?” She turned to Margery. “Marg, why don’t you help me up at the bar?”

Once she had Margaery out of earshot, Brienne pulled her into a quiet corner. “Marg, I think we need to abort the mission. Jaime’s not ready for this. You saw him. He’s barely hanging on as it is.”

Margaery shook her head. “No, no, it’s even more important now that we steady on, Brienne. If Cersei has moved on, why shouldn’t Jaime?”

“Cersei moved on way before this,” Brienne whispered tersely. “Hells, Cersei’s been moving on since she and Jaime began dating. And Jaime’s not Cersei!”

“Brienne, he’ll be fine. Jeyne is my friend, not the Night King. She’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Brienne rubbed a hand through her hair and groaned in resignation. “Fine,” she gritted. “But if Jaime ends the night crying into his beer, I’m sending him home with you.”

“Deal.”

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Two hours and countless pints later, a pretty girl with long, dark hair approached the table.

“Margaery?”

“Jeyne!” Marg cried. “Oh, Lovey, how are you?” She rose and embraced the girl, turning to the rest of the table. “Everyone, this is Jeyne Poole. Jeyne, this is everyone.”

“Hello,” Jeyne greeted sweetly.

“Darling, you must join us,” Margaery said, stealing a chair from another group and placing it across the table from Jaime. “Here, love. Sit down. We were just having a very heated discussion about development in Flea Bottom. Jaime here works for Lannister Industries who apparently has great plans to gentrify all the dark corners of King’s Landing.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Jacking up rents so high that the locals can’t afford to live in the neighborhoods in which they were raised,” Brienne argued loudly.

“Wench, I told you already…” Jaime started.

“Now, now, you two,” Margaery broke in. “We mustn’t scare Jeyne away.” She placed her hand on Jaime’s arm. “Jaime, why don’t you tell Jeyne about your company’s big plans. Brienne will promise not to interrupt, won’t you, Brienne?” She shot a warning glance at Brienne, her eyes sharp.

“Fine,” Brienne grumbled. She turned to Jaime. “Go ahead, tell Jeyne of all of your evil plans for world domination, Lannister. I have to hit the Ladies anyway.” 

Jaime looked up at her in momentary panic, but she just grinned and patted him on the head, before heading off. 

By the time Brienne returned, Jaime was looking rather uncomfortable as Margaery retold a story of a wild trip to Dorne she and Jeyne had taken back when they were in university. Jeyne was smiling prettily and chiming in with bawdy remembrances, but Jaime looked wary and slightly green. When Brienne slid into her seat, Jaime leaned over and muttered under his breath, “Any chance we can go soon, wench?”

“Not bloody likely,” she whispered back. “Tor still hasn’t come back from the game of pool he left to play hours ago. He and Drogo must be hustling someone again.” She bumped against Jaime’s shoulder. “Relax, Lannister. Have another beer.”

“So how did you two meet?” Jeyne asked suddenly, interrupting their whispered tête-á-tête and pointing between Jaime and Brienne. “You seem good mates.”

Brienne smiled. “We were on opposing sides of a legal dispute.”

“Really?” Jeyne raised an eyebrow.

“Really,” Brienne replied.

“Who won?”

Jaime smiled his first real smile of the night. “She did. Handed me my ass on a platter. Quite embarrassing, actually.”

“And yet you lived to tell about it,” Brienne said flatly.

“What was the dispute about?” Jeyne queried.

“Land development,” Brienne replied smugly. “Jaime wanted to ride roughshod over protected wetlands all in the name of capitalism.”

“You make me sound like some diabolical villain,” Jaime groused.

“If the shoe fits, Lannister.”

“Come now, I’ll have you know that I have stopped many a Lannister deal at the real risk of alienating my father, all in the name of the common good.”

“That’s only because Brienne’s made you do it,” Loras chimed in. “Really, Jaime, you never cared a whit about the common good until you met Brienne.”

“Loras,” Brienne broke in. “Credit where credit is due. Jaime has done many good things without my influence.”

“Well, he did finally leave the Wicked Witch of Westeros, so there’s that,” Loras quipped. 

“Loras!” Margaery admonished her brother, watching as Jaime’s color drained. Realizing the opening she had been given, she cleared her throat, looking pointedly at Brienne before shifting her gaze back to Loras. “Listen, brother, why don’t you and Renly come play Sansa and me in darts? I bet we could take the two of you.”

“Sounds like fighting words, Ren,” Loras said smirking. “What do you think? Should we take them on?”

Renly downed his beer. “Hells yes! Nothing like a good competition to get the blood flowing. Lead on to the melee, fair maids! Lead on!”

The boys got up noisily, following Marg and Sansa into the back of the pub and leaving Brienne with Jaime and Jeyne. 

_ “This is where I’m supposed to excuse myself,” _ Brienne thought, her mind a little muddy from all the alcohol she had consumed. She supposed she could go check on Tormund. He wouldn’t appreciate her interrupting him if he were, indeed, in the midst of a hustle, but sacrifices were necessary when love was involved. 

Brienne opened her mouth to make the excuse, but before she could say a word, Jaime grabbed her knee under the table, squeezing it tightly in a deathgrip. She turned to him, and he gave her a withering look. Right. He was on to them. There would be no escaping now. Fucking Margaery and her fucking plan. Deftly, Brienne shifted gears. “Um … so Jeyne, what is it that you do?”

“Oh I work in insurance. Boring really. The only good part of it is the traveling I get to do. I fly all over Westeros.”

Brienne nodded, nudging Jaime to respond, but he simply picked up his drink, a bored look on his face. “That sounds good fun,” Brienne replied heartily, trying to quell the awkwardness. “Have you ever had the chance to visit the Westerlands -- the Lannisport area?”

“Oh yes,” Jeyne said, her face lighting up. “I was just there during the last harvest moon. Lovely area.” She turned to Jaime. “You’re from there, Jaime, yes?”

“I am,” Jaime replied lightly.

Brienne waited, but Jaime refused to cooperate. The damn man was going to make this whole thing as uncomfortable as possible. “What about Tarth?” Brienne finally blurted into the awkward silence. Jaime was angry, but that was no excuse for him to take it out on the poor girl. 

“Only once,” Jeyne replied. “It was a few years ago on holiday.” She looked at Brienne inquisitively. “Wait. Tarth? Tarth? Brienne Tarth? Are you the Evenstar?”

“No, that’s my father,” Brienne corrected.

“But it will be Brienne one day,” Jaime proudly chimed in, looking suddenly interested in the conversation.

“Gods willing not for a very long time yet,” Brienne replied.

“You’ll make a great Evenstar, wench, whenever it is that you are called to duty,” Jaime said fondly, lifting his glass in a mock salute.

Jeyne looked between them questioningly. “Yes,” she said softly. “I think maybe you will.”

“Brienne!” Margaery called winding her way back to the table. She shot Brienne a calculating look. “I need you to join my team. Sansa is ridiculously drunk, and I won’t give Renly and Loras the satisfaction of winning.”

However, before Brienne could push back her chair, Jaime’s hand fell again to her knee, gripping it tightly. He would leave bruises, she was sure of it. He leaned forward. “No bloody chance,” he hissed at her, before arranging his face back into a mask of politeness. “I’ll go,” he said, standing. “We Lannisters are known for our competitiveness.” 

“Oh, Jaime,” Margaery tried to argue, her face panicked. “It’s meant to be girls against boys.”

Jaime simply shook his head. “Well, Tormund’s been referring to me as a mooning maid since Cersei and I parted ways, so I think I’ll do in a pinch.” He turned back to Jeyne. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Poole.”

“Yes,” she replied nodding. “Likewise.”

“Brienne,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. 

She nodded back at him dumbly, avoiding his gaze. 

However, Jaime was having none of it. He put his hand down on the table in front of Brienne and leaned in. “Do you know what else we Lannisters are known for, Brienne? Besides our competitiveness?” 

“Your sweet temperament and forgiving nature?” Brienne hazarded, looking up at him sheepishly. 

He barked out a laugh. “Not bloody likely,” he growled. “No, Brienne, we’re known for always paying our debts. Always.”

“Right,” she said.

“Right,” he echoed. And with that, he turned and left. 

Margery threw an apologetic look at Brienne; however, Brienne simply shrugged resignedly. She had been right. He wasn’t ready. What’s more, he was going to fucking murder her.

When Jaime and Margaery had disappeared into the crowd, Brienne turned again to Jeyne. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He really is a great guy, when his heart isn’t broken.”

Jeyne smiled. “No harm done.” She took a sip of her drink. “So, he’s really hung up on this Cersei person, huh?”

Brienne nodded. “Has been since he was young.”

“I only ask because ...” Jeyne stopped, weighing her words. “Well, I know I’m new to this scene and all, but it just seemed like the two of you…” She broke off.

“The two of us?” Brienne queried, taking a gulp of her own drink.

When Jeyne remained silent, Brienne suddenly understood. “Gods no!” she laughed. 

“It’s not that ridiculous,” Jeyne protested, laughing herself. Brienne had such a booming, wild laugh, it was difficult not to get caught up in it. “No, seriously,” Jeyne continued. “The only time he looked halfway happy tonight was when he was talking to you.”

“No, no, no,” Brienne tried to catch her breath, the tears streaming from her eyes in her merriment. Gods she was drunk. “We’re mates -- that’s it. Holy Seven, I’d kill him before I’d ever consider dating him.”

“You just said he was a great guy,” Jeyne argued, laughing along. 

“He is,” Brienne cried, overcome with mirth. “He’s a great guy, but he’s Jaime Fucking Lannister. Can you even imagine?” That thought set her off again. “I can just see Tywin’s face!” She slapped the table trying to catch her breath. 

“It’s not that far-fetched, Brienne,” Jeyne maintained in between giggles. 

“It is,” Brienne gasped. “It truly is.” She reached out and grabbed Jeyne’s hand. “Oh, I wish he were ready,” she said grinning down at her. “You seem like a great girl.”

“So do you,” Jayne replied, squeezing Brienne’s hand and smiling back. “Perhaps a little less than perceptive, but a great girl all the same.” She glanced at her phone and sighed reluctantly. “Shoot. It’s late. I really must go,” she said, gathering her coat and purse. “Tell Marg I’m sorry it didn’t work out and that I’ll call her.”

“I will,” Brienne promised. “Thanks again for trying.”

“I had fun,” Jeyne said. “I hope he’s not too hard on you.”

“No worries,” Brienne waved away her concern. “I can take him in my sleep.”

“Hmm…yes, I bet you can,” Jeyne replied, before giving a little wave and turning to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I am truly grateful. And thanks especially to those who take the time to comment and leave kudos. You are the bee's knees!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime observes what a healthy relationship between two people looks like. He is both dismayed and intrigued. 
> 
> Warning: discussions of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Public Service Announcement: This is a slow build/slow burn, ladies and gents. Never fear, I’ll get them there. Trust me. I promise I will. For Lady Catelyn. And for you.

_ ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................ _

** _And if we only die once_ **

** _I want to die with you_ **

** _One Republic "Something I Need"_ **

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

In the end, it took a fair bit of groveling on Brienne’s part and a promise to take over Jaime’s washing-up chores for a week, but he forgave her for the whole Jeyne Poole incident. He even gamely agreed to take over as her running partner when Drogo left for his long holidays in Essos. 

As the days turned into weeks, Brienne and Jaime settled into a comfortable routine. They were up by 6:00 for a run. Jaime would then shower and dress while Brienne made breakfast. After breakfast, he would do the washing-up while she got ready for work. Both would be out the door and on their way to their respective places of employment by 7:40. Although Jaime usually preferred workouts at the gym lifting weights, he found himself quite enjoying these early morning runs. Brienne was so damn competitive that he was able to get in a good workout even without all the heavy lifting. They would start companionably enough side by side. However, by the second mile, one or the other of them would pick up the pace, and then it was a race to see who could finish first. It was exhilarating, really. Oh, Jaime lost more times than he won; but the few times that he did manage a victory guaranteed a brilliant day. And at this point, Jaime would take any small victory he could get. It had been a hell of a month. 

Honestly by all rights, Jaime should have found a place of his own when the few nights crashing at his best mate’s house became a few weeks crashing at his best mate’s house. However, somehow finding his own flat would mean admitting that things with Cersei were well and truly over, and Jaime just wasn’t quite ready to admit that. So Brienne’s guestroom it was. 

Brienne was being a really good sport about the whole thing -- of course, she had loads of practice being a good sport; but still Jaime appreciated that she never made him feel like her hospitality had a time limit on it. He did feel somewhat guilty interfering with her love life, though. When he wasn’t at work, Jaime was always at Brienne’s, and because of this, Brienne spent quite a lot of time at Tormund’s flat -- much to Jaime’s dismay. Jaime tried not to resent the Wildling, but it was difficult when all Jaime really wanted to do after a long day’s work was sit on the couch with Brienne and bemoan his miserable lot in life and then fall asleep watching some crap television show. Jaime had the good grace not to say anything about his resentment -- beggars and choosers and all that. However, it was one of the reasons why he agreed to the morning runs. That was guaranteed time with Brienne, regardless of where she spent her nights. Now, if he could only convince her to cook a real breakfast instead of the damn smoothies she always made.

“Eggs are high in protein, you know,” Jaime argued, sighing as Brienne sat the green smoothie in front of him with a flourish. Hells, the green kind was his very least favorite. Brienne insisted that the apples hid the flavor of the spinach, but Jaime knew the truth -- he would be tasting that thrice cursed spinach all day. 

“Jaime, you are welcome to make your own breakfast, as you well know,” Brienne responded patiently.

“Yes, but you are the much better cook, and it doesn’t make sense to make two entirely different breakfasts.”

“Then you must learn to live with what you get and be grateful for it.” She gestured to his untouched smoothie.

“Brienne, I’m a Lannister,” Jaime groused. “Living with what you get and being grateful is the very opposite of our house words.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, her face taking on the expression of pained suffering. “Remind me again why I am friends with you.”

“Well, word on the street is that you think I’m pretty.” Jaime batted his eyelashes and cheekily pursed his lips.

“Bloody Tormund,” Brienne huffed in exasperation. “Can’t keep anything to himself.”

“Ah, yes -- Tormund.” Jaime smiled thinly, not really wanting to broach the subject; however, his guilt got the better of him. “The Wildling hasn’t been around much lately. Have I been scaring him off?”

Brienne took a great gulp of her smoothie and ran the back of her hand across her mouth. “Have you actually met Tormund, Jaime? Nothing scares him off.”

“I don’t know,” Jaime mused uncomfortably. “I feel like he used to spend more time here -- at the house. I can’t help but think he’s stopped coming around because I’m here now.” He looked at Brienne sheepishly. “I just don’t want to be in the way.”

Brienne got up to rinse her glass. “Jaime. I spend plenty of time with Tormund. And you’re not intruding. Stop worrying like a fretful septa.”

“He can’t like the fact that some other man is living with his girlfriend, though.” Jaime insisted.

“Some other man isn’t living with his girlfriend,” Brienne replied rolling her eyes. “_You_ are living with his girlfriend.”

“Yes, and last time I checked I was, indeed, a man,” Jaime said testily. “Isn’t he jealous?”

Brienne looked at him wide-eyed. “Of what?”

“Of you and me.” Jaime gestured between the two of them. “I sleep literally metres away from you, wench. What if something were to happen?”

Brienne looked at him incredulously. “If something were to happen?” She bit her lip to keep from laughing, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Oh, I see! You mean if I finally succumb to your great beauty while doing the washing-up, and we end up accidentally fucking on the kitchen floor while the sink overfills and Fairy Liquid bubbles coat our naked bodies?”

“Oh, Piss off!” Jaime growled, annoyed that she was making fun of his very normal concerns. 

“No, seriously,” Brienne teased. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about the inherent danger involved in this situation.” She looked at him in mock gravity. “You are extremely pretty, Lannister. Maybe Tormund should be nervous. After all, I am only a mortal woman.”

“All right,” Jaime conceded. “You make it sound ridiculous, but Cersei was insanely jealous all the damn time -- even of you.”

“And why do you think that was?” Brienne asked raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Jaime huffed still disgruntled. “She didn’t trust other women?”

“Hmm... and why wouldn’t she trust other women?”

Jaime sighed, understanding finally dawning. “Because she fucked around and just assumed other women would as well.”

“Yes,” Brienne agreed. “Also, the more she acted jealous of _ you _ the more she deflected the attention away from _ her. _ Never let it be said that Cersei Martell is not a brilliant strategist. You think it ridiculous that I’m afraid of her, but she is a fucking force of nature.”

“Gods,” Jaime groaned still hung up on his earlier revelation. “All those times she’d rail at me for speaking to another woman or spending too much time with you…and she was ...” Jaime hung his head tiredly. “I’m such an idiot.”

Brienne sat back down at the table, fondly rubbing the top of Jaime’s head. “Yes, but you’re an extremely pretty idiot.” When Jaime lifted his face in protest, Brienne smiled. “Look, Jaime, to answer your earlier question -- Tormund trusts me. He trusts you. He knows that you and your well being are important to me so they are important to him as well. Besides he likes you.”

“Well, he’s a better man than I am,” Jaime said despondently. “And apparently smarter too.”

Brienne reached out to push on his shoulder before getting up from the table. “You’re prettier, though,” she joked, turning to head to her shower. 

“Hey, Brienne,” Jaime said when she was almost out of the room. 

“Yes?”

“When you inevitably tell Tormund all about this humiliating conversation, maybe don’t mention the Fairy Liquid scenario. Tormund’s a good guy and everything, but he’s still a guy. Trust me on this, wench.”

Brienne snorted and rolled her eyes. “Men,” she grumbled. “You’re all a bunch of sodding children.” She shook her head and left the room. 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime thought a great deal about Brienne and Tormund the rest of his day at work. In all honesty, he still didn’t fully understand their relationship. It was entirely different from his relationship with Cersei -- entirely different from what he remembered of his parents’ relationship -- and certainly different from Tyrion’s relationship with half of King’s Landing. Jaime found the whole thing baffling really -- the fact that one could be so secure with another person, not always feel like the floor would give way at any second. What must it feel like to be so steady -- so comfortable? He was still pondering it, when he drove up to his house in Blackwater Bay. 

It had been well over a month since he had been back “home.” However, he had exhausted the few clothing options that he had brought with him to Brienne’s, and it had apparently become noticeable. Tyrion had made some off-the-cuff jape at that morning’s board meeting about Jaime always wearing the same suit which had resulted in an icy stare from Tywin. Jaime had suddenly realized that, if he were truly going to stay away longer, he needed to pack-up a bit more of his life. Unpleasant but necessary. He only prayed that Cersei would be out. 

However, when he pulled into the circular drive of the sprawling multi-level, Cersei’s dark gold Mercedes greeted him. Damn! He could turn around and leave. Come back another time. Send Bronn or Tyrion to pick up his things. However, staring at Cersei’s car, he felt his heart rate speed up and the beginnings of arousal prick across his skin. He hadn’t seen Cersei in weeks and weeks. Hadn’t touched her, held her, tasted her -- had her. He shook his head, trying to clear it._ Steady on, Jaime._ He could do this. He could definitely do this. Could he do this? Did he want to do this? Suddenly he wished he had Brienne by his side. Or a flaming sword. Or Brienne with a flaming sword. 

He let himself in with his key quietly. Cersei wasn’t in the front room. He looked around the still house. Things seemed relatively the same as when he had left. Standing in the grand foyer, he was suddenly struck by the opulence of the place, after weeks spent at Brienne’s modest home. It was a bit embarrassing really. His dining table alone was probably worth more than every stick of furniture Brienne owned. 

He padded up the staircase to the master suite. Taking a deep breath, he turned the door handle and entered. No Cersei. He breathed out a sigh somewhere between relief and disappointment and walked over to the wardrobe. Right. He could definitely do this. Flinging back the doors, he surveyed the packed confines. 

His clothes were gone. 

He blinked twice, panic gripping his gut. Where were his things? Furiously he shifted through the clothes in the wardrobe -- Cersei’s gowns and skirts and blouses in every color and fabric. But where the hell were his things? Where were his fucking clothes? 

“Looking for something?”

He turned to find Cersei leaning against the door frame of the wardrobe. She was beautiful -- dressed in a simple, white, summer dress which clung to her figure like a second skin. Her shining blond hair was down, and her glowing skin was a burnished golden beige save for a pale tan line that wrapped up invitingly across her shoulders. Jaime gulped.

“Cersei,” he choked out.

“Hello, Jaime,” she smiled. “The return of the prodigal boyfriend, it seems.”

Jaime could smell her across the wardrobe, that rich perfume she wore -- notes of mandarin orange, clove, and sandalwood. Her feet were bare, her painted toes pressing into the soft pile of the carpet. 

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed, running a hand up the door frame, her glossy, red nails scraping gently. 

Jaime cleared his throat. “My clothes?”

“I moved them,” Cersei said. “They are in the guest bedroom.”

Steeling his spine, Jaime went to move past her, but she stepped forward causing her chest to brush against his shoulder. He felt the softness of her and closed his eyes, commanding his feet to keep moving. 

Once in the guestroom, Jaime grabbed his clothes, haphazardly piling them on the bed.

Cersei trailed him into the room, watching him, her green eyes sharp and calculating. 

“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said.

He looked up from gathering his socks and undershirts. “Are you?”

“I’ve missed you, Jaime.”

“Yes,” Jaime spit. “I can tell. How’s Bobby, Cers?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Robert’s fine,” she demurred. “But he’s not you, Jaime.” She walked over to him, to where he was bending over the dresser and ran her hand up his back, her nails lightly scratching against the smooth fabric of his shirt. He froze. 

“I’ve missed you, Jaime. So much.” Her hand snaked around his bicep, turning him gently to face her.

“Missed me so much that you moved my clothes to the guest room?” Jaime was breathing hard --- anger, frustration, and desire all battling inside him.

“Missed your body,” Cersei continued, running her hand over his chest, up his neck, to tangle in his hair. “Missed your mouth.” She trailed a slick nail over his bottom lip. 

Jaime closed his eyes. Gods he wanted her. Wanted her so much.

“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you,” she murmured. She bent her head and kissed his throat, and Jaime dropped the clothes he was carrying. 

“Cersei,” he protested weakly. “Cersei...”

She was mouthing his neck now, her lips soft and warm. He felt one of his hands reach up and wrap around her waist of its own accord. 

“You can’t just fuck me and make things magically better,” he mumbled between clenched teeth. “You cheated on me. You’ve been seeing Robert sodding Baratheon. We can’t just get back together because you will it so.”

Cersei stopped her ministrations and stepped back, looking at Jaime quizzically. “Get back together?” she said. “No, Jaime. You don’t understand. I’m with Robert now. There’s no getting back together.” 

His hand fell from her hip.

She smiled archly. “However, let’s talk about that fucking you mentioned earlier. That sounds rather delicious.” She fisted her hands into Jaime’s dress shirt and pulled him towards her.

“What?” Jamie said uncomprehendingly. “You’re_ with _ Robert? ‘ _ With _ him’ with him?”

“Yes, darling,” Cersei purred, nuzzling into his neck. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be together from time to time. A little extracurricular activities, if you will. We’re so good together, Jaime. So, so good. Robert doesn’t even come close.”

“Wait,” Jaime rasped. He grabbed Cersei’s shoulders, pushing back. “What are you asking me? Are you asking me to be your … your sidepiece?” 

Cersei frowned distastefully. “Well, that’s an extremely common way of putting it.”

“It’s an extremely common request,” Jaime bit out. 

Cersei laughed. “Darling, Robert can’t very well be my man on the side. He’s a major politician. In every tabloid. Cameras follow him everywhere. Imagine the scandal.”

Jaime froze as if struck. Was this what their great love affair had come down to? For most of his life, Jaime had been assured of one thing: it was Cersei. It was always Cersei. Even in the difficult times -- all those times when he was heartsick and cursing her name -- all those lonely nights he lay in Brienne’s guest room, broken and alone-- all those times when the only relief from his despair was a minibar full of alcohol -- it was still her. It was her. It was Cersei. 

“Why in seven hells would I ever agree to that type of arrangement?” His face was white and strained, and he fought to keep his voice even. 

“Jaime, my love.” She smiled tightly, stepping back a pace. “You’re being ridiculously indignant. As if I were the one to blame for this.” She looked at him in exasperation. “I came to you weeks ago to put things right, but you wouldn’t even see me. Instead you sent your great, towering bodyguard out to shoo me away, as if what we had meant nothing.” She shook her head, her pupils narrowing sharply. “And then I didn’t hear from you at all. Not even a phone call. Surely you didn’t expect me to sit here gnashing my teeth and rending my garments in grief for you.” She shrugged. “You took too long.”

“I took too long?” Jaime’s voice shook.

She inhaled and gave him a long-suffering look. “My darling, I hardly think…” she began.

“Are you really standing in front of me trying to make me feel at fault -- trying to punish me for leaving. Leaving after you cheated on me with my fucking cousin? With fucking Lancel?”

“Now, now, my love. None of that. You know how agitated you get when you work yourself up. You become positively irrational.”

“Fuck you, Cersei!”

“Yes, darling,” she purred. “That is, indeed, the idea.” She stepped into him, running one dark red fingernail up his inseam, over the front of his pants, to play with the buckle of his belt. 

He felt himself harden instantly but stepped back out of her orbit, catching her hand. He felt sick to his stomach, the betrayal coiling in his gut poisonously. “Not even if you were the only woman in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Cersei laughed softly, her face triumphant. “Oh, my love. I am the only woman in all of the Seven Kingdoms -- at least where you’re concerned.” She smiled, freeing her hand from his grasp. “Now if you will excuse me, I really need to change for dinner. Robert tends to like a little more cleavage on display.” She gestured to her perfect decolletage. “Call me when you’ve come to your senses.” With that she turned and headed back to the master bedroom, leaving Jaime with a messy pile of clothes and a raging erection.

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime drove around King’s Landing for hours, his backseat loaded with the contents of his closet. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to thank all seven gods that he had escaped. He wanted to curse all seven gods for not giving him the one damn thing he desired. Finally, weary and red eyed and running low on petrol, he returned to Brienne’s. He was hoping she’d make him a cup of tea and let him vent -- let him be sad and pathetic and maudlin. However, as luck would have it, Tormund was over. The two of them were cuddled up under a tattered quilt on the sofa watching some sappy ass movie that Brienne loved. They invited him to join, but he gave some weak excuse of not feeling well. Brienne looked at him sharply at that, but he waved away her concern. He would be fine. After all, this wasn’t the first time Cersei had rejected him -- it wasn’t even the hundredth time. 

Once in his room, Jaime lay back on his bed contemplating his current situation. Aside from the aching sadness, he felt strangely empty and at loose ends. Incomplete. Lost. He honestly had no idea who he even was without Cersei. Sure they broke-up from time to time, but he hadn’t really been without her for any significant stint since he was thirteen. And they were meant to be together, weren’t they? Two golden people meant to have a golden life with loads of golden children. Yet, this break seemed final -- more final than the other breaks, at any rate. Was he meant to go on without her? Find someone else? Could there even be someone else or was Cersei right --- was she the only woman for him? The whole damn thing was overwhelming and terrifying. 

Jaime was surprised to feel the tears slipping down his face and pooling on his neck and in his ears. He didn’t remember starting to cry. Gods, he really was pathetic. So damn pathetic. No wonder Cersei had moved on. He turned his face into the pillow in shame.

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime awoke abruptly to the sound of loud, desperate keening. Disoriented, he reached for the light, flipping it on and momentarily blinding himself. It sounded like some animal was being sacrificed in the front room. He stumbled towards the door, pulling it open, noticing lights. The moaning intensified along with the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. The noise was wild, painful, something beyond human. 

Jaime increased his speed, lurching down the hall, buzzed on adrenaline. What in Seven was going on? He barreled into the room only to be met by Brienne clothed in a threadbare nightshirt, her blonde hair sticking up in all directions. “What…?” he started.

Just then there was a crash, as Tormund hit the wall with his heavy fist, sinking down to the floor with a groan and burying his face in his hands. 

Brienne turned to Jaime, tears streaming down her face. “Tor’s father died,” she said simply. “Motor accident. We just got the call.”

At that Tormund began to weep, heavy, wet sobs breaking from his chest. Brienne rushed to his side, cradling his massive red head against her chest, wrapping her strong arms around him. “That’s it. That’s it, love,” she crooned, rocking him as if he were a babe at her breast. “I’m here. I’m right here.” Tormund’s shoulders shook with the force of his emotions, but Brienne simply tightened her embrace. “I’m sorry,” she chanted softly. “I’m so sorry, love.” He buried his head in her lap, and Brienne ran her fingers through his wild hair. 

“I can’t…” Tormund choked. “I can’t ...I just saw him. I just fucking saw him not a sennight ago.” 

“I know, love,” Brienne soothed, her voice catching. “I know.”

“He was the best…” Tormund raised his head, his blue eyes dulled with grief. “Brienne, he was the best man I knew. He was my Da. My Da, Brienne. My Da.”

Brienne cradled his face, her eyes streaming. “I know, Tor.” Her voice broke. “I know. I’m so incredibly sorry, love.” She gathered him back against her chest and let him cry. Let his grief come pouring out into her. 

Jaime stood silently, shocked by the scene playing out in front of him. What was this? What was happening? Was this how people behaved? He blinked, remembering back to when his own mother had died, back to when he was seven. His father had come into his bedroom and informed Jaime that, whilst he now had a new brother, unfortunately his mother had gone to meet the Stranger. He put his hand on Jaime’s shoulder and told him that he had to be a strong lad and not cry -- his mother wouldn’t have wanted tears. Jaime remembered thinking how odd it was that Tywin was in his bedroom. He had never been in Jaime’s bedroom before.

Jaime couldn’t even fathom feeling such raw grief as Tormund was feeling. Couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to have someone show him the tenderness and comfort Brienne was showing Tormund. Was this even normal? Certainly no one had ever held him like that, cradled him with such care. 

Tormund collapsed, the big giant of a man melting into Brienne’s lap as if boneless, and Jaime was jolted out of his reverie. He needed to leave. He knew that he was intruding on a private moment. However, try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. He watched as Tormund fell apart. Watched as Brienne gathered the pieces of him, holding them safely until she could fit him back together. Watched as Brienne’s own tears fell, as her own heart broke in response to Tormund’s suffering.

A strange emotion filled Jaime’s chest, rising up into his throat and into the corners of his eyes. He felt unsteady, unhinged, almost sick to his stomach. Gods, he needed to get a hold of himself. This wasn’t the time. He choked down the shaky bitterness that was suddenly clogging his throat and mumbled a soft apology, before turning and fleeing to his bedroom. 

It was only much later, after he was back in bed listening to Tormund’s quiet sobs and Brienne’s comforting murmurs, that Jaime was able to identify the emotion he had been feeling back in the front room -- the emotion that had kept him rooted in place, a voyeur of someone else’s private pain and grief. 

It was longing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Your comments mean the world.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which your intrepid author throws every trope at you, dear readers. Puts on Oprah voice, “And you get a trope! And you get a trope! And you! And you! And you!”
> 
> Warning: a bit of sadness and grief at the beginning.

..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................  
**Last night I think I drank too much**  
** Call it our temporary crutch**

**One Republic "Something I Need"**

**.............................................................................................................................................................................................................**

It was cold Beyond-the-Wall. A cold the likes of which Brienne had never experienced. It seemed to seep into every crack, every crevice -- seemed to crawl into the very marrow of her bones, crystallizing, making sure that it was painfully felt with every movement. Even at night, ensconced in her bed, a fire burning brightly and furs upon furs piled high around her, Brienne couldn’t shake off the cold. It invaded her dreams, its icy fingers rustling through her mind making her dream of death and stillness-- of vast, frozen plains -- of emptiness and despair. However, this invasive cold was nothing when compared to the grief that had settled over the Giantsbane residence.

Brienne had accompanied Tormund home for his father’s funeral. Of course she had. He didn’t even have to ask. The morning after they had received the call, Brienne had turned her current caseload over to Sansa; given Jaime instructions on rubbish pick-up and care of the houseplants; packed up the stunned and grief-stricken Wildling; and set off to the lands Beyond the North.

Tormund’s family had welcomed Brienne, had accepted her presence instantly. However, Brienne knew -- could feel that, despite their hospitality, they were barely aware of her. Every single one of them, from Tor’s old grandmother to his profusion of ginger nieces and nephews, were shell-shocked, walking around in a daze -- Tormund’s mother, especially.

When they had first arrived, Frøya Giantsbane had grabbed her son in a vise-like grip, swaying and wailing some primitive, raw lament. Brienne had fumbled for something to say or do to comfort the woman. However, Tormund had waved Brienne away, holding on to his mother for dear life, his eyes closed against her sorrow until, her energy spent, Frøya had released him and gone back to quietly making the tea. After that uncontrolled display of grief, all further family interactions were muted and contained. Family meals were hushed and heavy, conversations whispered. Even the once boisterous, red-haired, Wildling children moved through the house like silent wights, the heavy cloak of grief dulling even their smallest interaction.

Brienne had experienced loss before. Although she was too young to remember the loss of her mother and sisters, she remembered her brother Galladon’s death. She remembered how it had altered everything -- how every moment after his drowning had seemed tainted -- less than. She did her best to comfort Tormund, to remind him of warmth and love and happiness. However, he still looked at her dull-eyed, grasping onto her hand like a safety net.

Aksel Giantsbane, Tormund’s father, had been a monumental presence in the community. As the head of the largest clan of Wildlings North of The Wall, he was the owner and operator of the town’s major source of income, the local granite quarry. The first full day Beyond-the-Wall, Tormund had left for the quarry to try and sort out what was to become of it -- what was to become of all the workers who depended on it. Brienne was left with silent Frøya who looked at her with big, blue eyes filled with suffering. Brienne could only press her hand to the woman’s wrist, trying to convey her sympathy.

Tormund came home that night, his eyes hollow. He didn’t want to talk. He only wanted to hold Brienne, his arms heavy and cold around her.

“I’m here, love,” she whispered into the frozen stillness.

He turned his face into her hair and sobbed.

In the days leading up to the funeral, Tormund spent his time at the quarry. In turn, Brienne spent her days helping Frøya and Tormund’s sisters cook for the upcoming funeral. And as she worked, Brienne became aware of something else lingering besides the cold and the grief. It was there in the room with her as she peeled potatoes. It was there at night, when she curled into Tormund’s big body, seeking warmth. It was there when, unable to take the silence one second longer, she set off on a frozen trek across the woods bordering Frøya’s house. Try as she might, Brienne couldn’t quite name it; however she could feel it.

“It feels like something is waiting. Like we are all on edge,” she tried to explain to Jaime when he called to check up on her. “It feels like something is ending.”

“Well, that’s usually what a funeral is,” Jaime had explained gently. “It’s our very human attempt to come to terms with something ending.”

“Yes,” Brienne continued. “But it’s more than that. I just can’t shake it, Jaime. Do you know I’ve been dreaming of wights and walkers? Every night, my dreams are filled with them -- of dead, blue eyes and frozen, brittle bodies -- of great, empty wastelands that I can’t escape.”

“Oh, wench,” Jaime said, his voice marked with concern. “It’s time for you to come back home. We southerners weren’t made for the frozen North. I worry about you up there amongst all those Wildlings. Besides, it’s just not the same without you here. I’ve no one to torment save for Tyrion.”

Brienne smiled at that. “I’m sure you’ll survive. Although to tell you the truth, I’d take your tormenting any day over the silence and heaviness here. I feel like the grief is palpable, Jaime -- a living, breathing thing.”

“How’s Tormund?”

“He’s …” Brienne broke off. “He’s just really, really sad. And I think he feels responsible for his family and his people. He’s been at the quarry every day trying to figure out how to keep everything going.”

“Poor bloke,” Jaime said softly.

“I know. I wish I could help in some way.”

“Brienne, you are helping. You are there.” Jaime’s voice rasped. He cleared his throat impatiently. “He’s incredibly lucky to have you.”

“Yes, well,” Brienne tried to deflect, feeling suddenly embarrassed, “speaking of helping, I’d better get back to peeling potatoes. I swear I’ve made enough stews and pies these last few days to feed an army. I think we’re expecting the whole town at the funeral.”

“All right. I won’t keep you then." Jaime sighed. "Take care of yourself, wench. Don’t let the White Walkers get you.” He paused, the joking tone suddenly falling from his words, replaced by a raw earnestness. “Make sure you come back to me safely, Brienne.”

Brienne smiled. “I will. No worries there.”

“And tell Tormund I’m sorry once more.”

“Of course.” Brienne let out a breath. “Goodbye, Jaime. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Brienne. Take good care. Dream of only lovely things.”

...........................................................................................................................................................................................................

When Tormund came home that night, something had changed. Brienne noticed it all through the silent dinner with his family -- noticed it when Tormund went out to share a pipe with one of his uncles -- noticed it when he came back in, shaking the snow from his hair and beard, unable to look directly at her. Brienne said nothing, but she waited for it anxiously. Sure enough, once alone in their bedroom, Tormund drew Brienne to him, grasping her tightly and pulling her in front of the fire in a crushing embrace. “Brienne,” he choked out finally, his voice layered with sorrow. “I have to stay.”

There it was -- what Brienne had been dreading all these last days -- what she had been unable to name. Her heart dropped slowly to her feet, sinking like a stone.

“I have to,” he said roughly. “They need me. My family needs me. My people need me. The quarry …” he broke off. “We have to keep it going.”

Brienne reached up and smoothed Tormund’s wild, red hair away from his face. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “Of course you must stay.”

He looked at her through glassy eyes. “You could stay with me?” His voice was tentative, hopeful.

But Brienne simply closed her own eyes, shaking her head. “I can’t, Tor. You know I can’t. My life is back in King’s Landing. My job, my friends ...”

Tormund pressed his lips together and nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know that. Of course I do.” He pulled her back toward him, holding her quietly for a moment before shifting his body and rocking them back and forth in an awkward, but somehow comforting, dance. “It was grand, though. What we had. Wasn’t it?”

She could feel his tears against her neck. “Aye. It was grand,” she whispered before a sob broke through, and she was weeping in his arms.

...............................................................................................................................................................................................................

The funeral took place in the middle of a snowstorm on a frozen Wednesday morning. Tormund, his two brothers, and his three, massive cousins carried the body of Aksel to the giant pyre that the menfolk had constructed out of birch, alder, and rowan wood. As the first-born son, Tormund was tasked with the honor of lighting the pyre and sending his father off to meet the gods of the wind and forest and sky and rock. Despite the snow flurries, the tangle of branches caught instantly, and Brienne watched entranced, as the flames roared up to the heavens consuming the body of Aksel Giantsbane, chieftain of the Wildlings clan, husband to Frøya, and father to Tormund and his seven siblings. One of the elder Wildlings began to sing a raw, jarring lament, and the mourners circling the pyre lifted their voices in chorus.

As she peered through the white curtain of snow eerily lit by the wild flames, Brienne couldn’t tell if her eyes were streaming from the heavy, painful song, the thick smoke, or from her own selfish grief.

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................

When the funeral was over, Tormund traveled back to King’s Landing with Brienne to pack up his flat and settle things with his employer. Brienne tried to put on a brave face. She tried not to count the days until he left for good, but it was impossible to do so. Things had changed. A strange distance had settled between the two of them since that night Beyond-the-Wall, and as much as she sought to, Brienne couldn’t bridge it.

Finally, it was time. Not wanting a long, drawn-out goodbye, Tormund stopped by Brienne’s flat on his way out of town, his truck loaded to the gills with his life in King’s Landing. Brienne met him outside of her flat, examining his precariously packed truck through hazy eyes. There was the telly on which they had watched all of those ridiculously gory films every Thursday night. There was the lamp Brienne had bought for the living room because Tormund’s flat was so dark that she kept running into the furniture. There was the stuffed elk head Tormund kept in his entryway and fondly referred to as Jon Snow, an homage to one of his friends he had met during his mandatory military service at The Wall. Brienne gulped back a sob.

Jaime tentatively emerged from the flat, not wanting to intrude but wanting to wish the Wildling safe journey, just the same. He held back, letting Brienne and Tormund have their moment.

“I’m going to miss you, ye great big woman,” Tormund said, standing stiffly in front of Brienne, his eyes red rimmed and much too bright.

Brienne reached out to cup Tormund’s face gently, her long fingers tangling in his beard. She looked at him, her smile brave. “Aye, I’m going to miss you too, you great big cunt.”

Tormund huffed out something between a sob and a laugh, pulling Brienne towards him in a desperate embrace. “I’ll call when I get there. Let you know I made it,” he said gruffly, pushing back from Brienne and striding towards his truck. He stopped when he noticed Jaime. “Take care of her, Lannister -- there’s a good lad.”

“With my life,” Jaime promised solemnly.

Tormund blinked and grabbed Jaime’s bicep in his large grasp, squeezing it tightly. “Aye,” was all he managed, running a massive paw under his eyes. He nodded once, before getting into the truck, turning the ignition, and driving away in a cloud of black exhaust.

Once he was gone, Brienne sank down onto the footpath, pulling her knees up to her chest in a defensive posture. Silent tears streamed down her face, as she closed her eyes tightly.

Jaime walked over to her, tentatively sitting down a little ways away on the pavement. “Oh, wench,” he said gently. “Come on now.” He reached over, gripping her shoulder softly and slipping his arm around her protectively. “There’s my great girl. Are you all right?”

“Not really, no,” she snuffled, trying to pull out of his embrace, but Jamie just tightened his arm.

“Do you love him?” he asked, curious and surprisingly a little fearful of the answer.

“Yeah. Little bit.”

“But not enough to go with him?”

She looked up, her lashes wet with tears. “My life’s here, Jaime. He understands that.” She sighed. “Doesn’t make it any easier though.”

“No,” Jaime replied. “I suppose it doesn’t. I’m sorry, wench. I truly am.”

“I know. Thanks for that.”

Jaime held her, as she cried quietly. When the worst of it was over, he turned to her and laughed gently. “Well, look at us. What a great pair we make -- a couple of pathetic, old losers.”

Brienne snorted and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper. “Hey, speak for yourself, Lannister,” she tried to quip, her voice hoarse from crying. “I may be pathetic, but you’re the only old one here.”

“Below the belt, Brienne. Below the belt.”

Brienne sighed sorrowfully. “Yeah, but I’m sad, so fair game.”

Jamie pulled her towards him again and kissed the top of her head fondly. “I know, wench.” They sat in silence for a few more moments, Brienne leaning heavily into him. Finally Jaime squeezed her shoulder. “Here’s an idea. Let’s get blindingly drunk and forget about how pathetic we are.”

She rubbed her nose and gave him a brave smile. “Aye. Let’s.”

He smiled in return, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. However, before he could move away, she caught his hand and brought it to her lap, looking at him with glassy, blue eyes. “You know you’re not pathetic, right?”

He opened his mouth to comment, but she barreled on. “If I haven’t told you lately, I’m very proud of you for not going back. For not going back to her.”

Jaime’s heart twisted. “Ah well,” he joked, trying to keep his tone light. “My life's here now.”

She groaned and then barked out a laugh, pushing his hand away. “You’re the absolute worst, Jaime Lannister.”

“Surely not the worst, wench,” he quipped back, pulling her up from the pavement and throwing his arm around her waist. He steered her towards the door of her flat. “What about that awful man at the coffee shop who always lewdly propositions you?”

“It’s a close race, but I think you still beat him.”

“Hmm … maybe I should think up some lewd propositions then.”

“Oh gods, where’s that promised alcohol?” she cried rolling her eyes.

Jamie cocked his head and wiggled his eyebrows up and down, leering at her. “Argh, I’ll give you something to quench your thirst, ye big, lusty wench.”

“Was that meant to be a proposition? You sound like a pirate, Jaime.”

“Give me time, wench. It takes practice.”  
............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

They stumbled back into the flat in the early morning hours both insanely drunk, but, incredibly, still standing -- well, mostly. When they parted ways to get ready for bed, Jaime did have that run-in with the hallway wall. However, Brienne just laughed and pulled him up by the collar, steering him towards his bedroom with a less than steady hand.

When Jaime finally staggered out of his bedroom, changed into pyjama pants and a t-shirt, Brienne was standing in the doorway to her own room looking in dazedly.

“Everything all right?” Jaime asked, coming up behind her. She had changed into a nightshirt already, her long legs bare.

“Yeah … it’s just…” She turned, looking at Jaime sadly, her eyes fuzzy from the alcohol. “The bed’s just really big, isn’t it?”

Jaime inhaled. “Come on, wench,” he said gently, taking her hand and leading her to the bed, only swaying the smallest bit. He pulled back the blankets and gestured for her to get in. Once he had tucked the quilts around her, he crawled clumsily over her to the other side, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

Brienne looked at him her expression sheepish. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid, Brienne.”

“Gods, it’s not even the sex that I’m going to miss the most,” Brienne sighed, waving her hand in an desperately exaggerated gesture.

Jaime snorted, trying to lighten the mood. “That doesn’t say much for our Wildling’s prowess in bed, now does it? And his feet are so huge too. Who’d have thought?”

Brienne hit him hard across the chest. “Oh sod off, Jaime!” she huffed. She lay on her back, her face taking on a far away look. “Tormund was fantastic in bed, by the way. So incredibly… giving.” She smiled dreamily, caught in the memory.

Jaime grimaced at that. He wanted to lighten the mood but not like this.

“No,” Brienne continued, “what’s going to be hardest to live without is just having him here, next to me.”

“I don’t follow, wench,” Jaime said, playing with the hem of the duvet and trying to clear the mental image of Brienne and Tormund in bed together.

“Just having him here, Jaime,” Brienne sighed, frustrated with his lack of understanding. “Just having him here to hold me, to stroke my hair and tell me that I’m good and right and brilliant and that the world just can’t always see it.” She rolled over, folding her hands under her cheek and looking at Jaime with a slightly unfocused gaze. “I know you thought he was a joke most of the time.”

Jaime opened his mouth to protest, but Brienne continued. “He was good to me, though. Really good to me. He would have given me the moon, if I had asked for it.” She blinked back the tears that had suddenly come to her eyes. “He thought I was the very best.”

Jaime reached out and touched her face. “You are the very best.”

“Gods, I miss him already,” Brienne whispered softly.

“I know, wench,” Jaime replied, pulling her body to him carefully. He patted her head. “I’m glad he was good to you.” When she didn’t reply, he exhaled wistfully and said with a sigh, “And I know how difficult it is to miss someone.”

Brienne sniffed suddenly and rolled back onto her side of the bed, looking at Jaime in chagrin. “Oh hells,” she groaned. “I’m so sorry, Jaime. I’ve been so self-involved. I never even thought about the fact that you’re missing her too. This is probably bringing up all kinds of shit for you.”

Jaime smiled a sad half-smile. “It’s not the same,” he said quietly, waving away her concern. “All those things you described -- all that you had with Tormund -- I never really had that with Cersei. Oh, sometimes she’d tell me I was the very best, but that was usually after she had cheated on me and was trying to get me to take her back.”

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” Brienne said wretchedly.

“It’s OK,” Jaime replied lightly. “I survived. I never really had all of that anyway, I guess ... so I didn’t know what I was missing.”

It could have definitely been the booze, but Brienne was suddenly overcome by the unfairness of it all. Poor Jaime. Poor unloved and unappreciated Jaime. How dare Cersei treat him that way. It made Brienne absolutely furious. She huffed and grabbed her pillow, pushing it back towards the headboard and leaning against it so she was sitting up slightly. “All right then,” she said briskly, holding out her arms. “Come here.”

Jaime looked at her puzzled.

“I’m serious, Lannister. Come here.”

When he still didn’t move, she sighed in frustration. “Apparently no one has ever held you and told you how brilliant you are, so it’s up to me, isn’t it?”

Jaime laughed. “You’re drunk, wench.”

Brienne inhaled, a long-suffering look on her face. “I may be drunk, Jaime, but you’re long overdue for someone to tell you how lovely you are. Now, come …” she gestured to herself impatiently.

“I’m meant to be comforting you, wench,” Jaime argued.

“This will comfort me,” Brienne replied. “Come on now. It will be good for you to listen for once.”

Jaime rolled his eyes and reluctantly crawled toward her. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes, of course it is,” Brienne said, pulling him into her body and putting her arms snugly around him. She brought one hand up and stroked his hair gently, waiting for the stiffness in his muscles to give way. When he finally relaxed into her, she kissed his head fondly. “There,” she said. “Now let me tell you all the reasons why you are tremendous, Jaime Lannister.”

“That’s sure to be short list.”

“Shall I start with your sense of humor, then?” Brienne quipped. “You really are fantastically funny.”

“You think so?” Jaime inquired, strangely touched by her compliment.

“Yes, although your humor is often at my expense.”

“But you’re such an easy target, wench,” he murmured contentedly. This really was rather nice. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him. Cersei probably. But he had never really felt comfortable in her embrace. He was always deathly afraid he would say something or do something that would set her off of him for good.

Brienne let her fingers run lightly across his shoulders, and he sighed. “You’re rather clever too, you know,” Brienne continued lazily. “That’s what informs your wit.”

“Cersei always used to say I was the stupidest Lannister,” Jaime muttered bemusedly.

“Ah yes, well Cersei is a wonderful judge of character, isn’t she?” Brienne replied seriously. “Really I think we should base all of our life decisions on what Cersei would do.”

Jaime laughed at that. “Perish the thought, wench.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine,” Jaime agreed, rolling a tad closer into her. “Point made. Now tell me more about how glorious I am.”

“Hmm… yes,” she said almost sleepily. She smiled down at him. “You have the biggest heart, Jaime Lannister.”

He raised his head a bit and looked up at her in disbelief. She must be drunker than he thought.

“I’m serious. Sometimes I wonder how you are able to carry it around with you. A heart so big must be heavy.” She put her hand against his chest, pushing on it to feel his heartbeat. “Ah, there it is.” She beamed at him. “I’m terribly fond of it. It’s my very favorite part of you.”

“Not my incredible biceps or my sexy ass?” Jamie joked, wagging his eyebrows.

Brienne shook her head. “Nope.”

“But you do like my incredible biceps and my sexy ass? You have to say yes, wench. This is my time for praise, remember?”

Brienne bent her head to catch his eye. “I know you’re trying to joke your way out of a compliment that you don’t think you deserve, Jaime Lannister, so listen up. You are a very good person. I should know. I only surround myself with good people. I’m very discerning. Now, it may make you more comfortable to pretend that you’re a rogue…”

“A rogue?”

“Yes, a rogue,” Brienne continued determinedly. “But you definitely do not have the heart of a rogue. You have the heart of a good and true person.”

He smiled a faint, half- smile. “You flatter me, wench.”

“Yes that is, in fact, the purpose of this exercise,” Brienne said, rolling her eyes. “And, if you would quit interrupting me, I could get on with it.”

“As you command, my lady,” Jaime acquiesced. He burrowed closer into her chest drowsily, letting her soft voice and the feel of her hand on his hair lull him into sleepiness. She was truly something, his wench. Only Brienne Tarth would choose to comfort him on the eve of her own heartbreak.

Hells, Jaime may not be half the man she thought he was, but he must have done something very right to have Brienne in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this went in an entirely different direction than I had planned. However, I have to admit, I'm quite fond of how it turned out in the end. If you have a spare moment, let me know what you think. 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for your continued support. Life's a bit crazy right now, and it's not always easy to find the time to write. However, your support keeps me going.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, family - can’t live with them, can’t, in fact, make them into lamp shades. 
> 
> Our lovely Tywin makes a dour appearance. Jaime and Tyrion have a heart to heart. Brienne receives some news.

.....................................................................................................................................................................................................

**And if we only die once,**  
** I want to die with you**

**One Republic "Something I Need"**  
**....................................................................................**..........................................................................................................

Jaime awoke the next morning with his face pressed solidly into Brienne’s calf. Somehow he had shifted during the night and was currently lying perpendicular to her at the bottom of the bed, his body half-on and half-off of the mattress. He raised his head, groaning at the movement, his lips leaving a slick trail of drool on Brienne’s freckled skin. Gods, he was never bloody drinking again. How the hells did Tyrion manage it so often?

Jaime tried sitting up, but his legs, having spent most of the night suspended off of the bed, were numb; and he only succeeded in slithering to the floor in a giant, painful heap.

“Fuck.”

Brienne let out a rough groan, turning towards him, her eyes bleary and her hair a wild halo. “Jaime?” she croaked, not able to locate the source of the noise.

“Down here, wench.”

She crawled on her elbows to the side of the bed and peered down, puzzled. Her white blonde hair was sticking up at all angles, and yesterday’s eyeliner was smudged below her eyes. “Why are you on the floor?”

“The view, of course,” Jaime deadpanned, rooting around under himself for one of Brienne’s wayward shoes that was currently poking him in the ass and tossing it over his shoulder. “I fell off,” he admitted, rubbing his hand down his face and grimacing.

Brienne laughed and then held her head, her face contorting in pain. “Oh Seven,” she moaned. “How much did we have to drink last night?”

“Too much,” Jaime said, giving up trying to stand and instead collapsing down to lay completely prone on the floor. “We were trying to drown our sorrows, but I think we ended up drowning ourselves instead. I feel like right shit.”

“You look like it too,” Brienne quipped, quirking an eyebrow.

Jaime sat up suddenly, ignoring the pain in his head and hauled himself up onto the mattress in one swift movement. “Is that so, wench?” he growled, lunging towards her.

She squeaked and rolled away from him, but he managed to catch her wrists, holding them above her head.

“Jaime,” she tried, squirming away. “Gods, your breath is foul.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he agreed, deliberately enunciating every syllable into her face. “And is that anyway to treat the man who took you out and comforted you in the face of heartbreak?”

“If I remember correctly, I was doing my fair share of comforting too.”

Jaime stilled, remembering. His mind went back to the night before -- to her words, her embrace, and then suddenly, they were too close. He looked down at her, a strange warmth breaking over his body, causing his face to flush. Immediately unsure, he loosened his grip on her wrists but stayed hovering over her. “True,” he conceded, meeting her gaze, though his eyes were oddly burning. “You did.”

Below him, Brienne’s smile turned puzzled. “Jaime? Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, blinking to clear his head. “Er ...thanks for last night, by the way.” His face was becoming much too hot. “I … well, just thanks.”

Brienne looked up at him questioningly. “Of course,” she said. “No need for thanks. That’s what friends are for.”

“Yes,” he murmured “Right.” He looked at her through hazy eyes, reluctant to let her go completely.

“Jaime.”

“Yes?”

“I have to piss.”

The spell was suddenly broken. He scrambled back up off of her, his cheeks red. “Sorry. Yes, of course. Sorry. Let me just ...” He sat up, shuffling over so she could move.

Brienne hauled herself off of the bed with a grunt and headed to the bathroom, turning to give him one more puzzled glance.

When she was gone, Jaime fell back on the mattress, rolling his eyes. What the hells was going on? Seriously, he was acting the complete and total idiot -- a side effect of binge drinking, he assumed. He inhaled, scrunching his face in response to his throbbing head. Ah well, nothing that a few paracetamols and a brisk shower wouldn’t mend.

................................................................................................................................................................................................................

When Jaime emerged from the shower, feeling slightly less like the Drowned God and more like himself, he found Brienne already sitting at the table drinking a smoothie.

“It’s banana chocolate,” she said, gesturing to the tall glass of brownish liquid placed on the table across from her.

Jaime paused. Banana chocolate was his favourite of all the smoothies in Brienne’s vast smoothie repertoire. He wondered fleetingly if she had made his favourite on purpose and found himself blushing at the thought. Not this again! Gods, this hangover was doing strange things to his brain.

“Thanks,” he said, coming to sit across from her. She had changed into shorts and an old Clash t-shirt, but her hair was still sticking up in wild peaks like some drugged out 80’s rock star.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” Jaime asked, taking a gulp of smoothie. It was sweet and rich, but it sat in his stomach uncomfortably. “Are you doing all right, wench?”

Brienne gave him a sad smile. “As well as can be expected. Tor called this morning --when you were in the shower. Said he made it home in one piece, so that’s … good, I guess.” She shrugged, blinking back the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. “I thought I’d hit the gym today. Work out some of this dark mood.”

Jaime nodded. “That’s a good idea. I’d join you, but unfortunately, I’ve been summoned home.” He frowned. The call from Tywin had come last night, while they were at the bar drowning their sorrows. Jaime hadn’t mentioned it to Brienne, not wanting to distract attention away from her plight.

“Gods -- anything serious?”

“Who knows?” Jaime replied. “My father says he wants to discuss my ‘situation.’”

“That can’t be good.”

“It never is when Tywin Lannister is concerned.”

“Do you need me to go with you? He can’t murder you, if there is a witness.”

“Ah, you underestimate him.” Jaime shook his head. “No, I should be all right. Tyrion will be there -- and Bronn.” He sighed. “I just wish I wasn’t so damn hung-over. It’s never a good idea to enter the lion’s den without your wits about you.”

“Drink up then, sunshine,” Brienne grinned. She gestured to his smoothie. “I made sure to pack it with vitamins and protein so you will be well and truly fortified.” When he still looked unsure, she reached out to cover his hand with her own. “You’ll be OK, Jaime,” she said. “And, if not, just call me, and I’ll gather up the cavalry and come riding to your rescue, sword aflame. Tywin Lannister will stand no chance.”

Jaime smiled, his hand under hers suddenly buzzing with a strange electricity. “Thanks, wench,” was all he managed, before he awkwardly pulled his hand away and quickly gulped his smoothie to cover the thrice-damned blush that was once more rapidly staining his cheeks. And as Brienne went about cleaning up the breakfast dishes completely oblivious to his current state, Jaime couldn’t help but think that the resulting brain freeze was entirely worth it.

...............................................................................................................................................................................................................

Tywin’s house in the city was nothing like Casterly Rock. The Rock was cold, formal, off-putting -- yet there was history and tradition in every inch of its craggy stone walls and ancient, decaying battlements. It told a story -- not always a happy one, but a story all the same.

There was no story to be found in Tywin’s residence in King’s Landing. The modern monstrosity was a slick, towering building of glass and steel. It sat, imperiously looking over Blackwater Bay, a barren fortress of functional sterility -- no room for tradition or history or even comfort. Jaime hated it with every fiber of his being.

Tywin was sitting at his massive, industrial-styled desk, when Jaime was ushered into the study. Cold, pale sunlight flooded the austere cell from the great wall of tempered glass facing the bay, washing out the room and its inhabitant with its feeble glow.

“Father,” Jaime said with as much bravado as he could muster, taking a seat on one of the stiff metal and leather chairs strategically placed around the room for optimal discomfort. He glanced at the spartan walls and bare floors. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Very cozy. What do they call this school of decorating? Prison chic?”

Tywin glanced up from his papers, an exasperated look on his pinched features. “Spare me your sad attempt at humor, Jaime. It is my study, and I am free to decorate it however I like.” He removed his glasses and looked at his son. “Well. It’s been a while. How are you?”

“Fine. And you?” Jaime tried for nonchalance but found himself squirming uncomfortably under Tywin’s sharp gaze.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Tywin replied. “Not well at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Twin mused, his eyebrows raising incredulously. “That’s quite ironic considering that you are the cause of my current malaise.”

Jaime sighed tiredly, steeling himself for the coming reprimand. “All right. I’ll bite. What have I done now?”

“It’s not so much what you’ve done but what you’ve failed to do, son. Have you seen the papers?” When Jaime shook his head, Tywin reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a newspaper, flicking it open to the center spread.

From his vantage point, Jaime could not see the article in question, but he needn't worry. Before Jaime could even ask, Tywin had replaced his eyeglasses, cleared his throat, and begun to read in his clipped, cold accent:

** _“Cersei Martell was spotted out with her new paramour, political It-Boy Robert Baratheon, Thursday night at the benefit for the Sept of Baelor. The couple caused quite a scandal in the hallowed halls of the newly renovated Sept with their roving hands and not-so-whispered endearments. A source close to the couple claims that they left the gala well before the silent auction had concluded and returned to the Martell/Lannister residence, where Mr. Baratheon is reported to have been staying for the past month._ **

** _And what of Ms. Martell’s fiancé, Jaime Lannister? Sources say that Mr. Lannister has moved out of the residence and has hidden himself from the public eye. When pressed for a statement about the longstanding Lannister/Martell engagement, Tywin Lannister, CEO of Lannister Industries, had no comment._ **

** _Jaime Lannister is currently the vice president of Lannister Industries and is the sole owner of the house in Blackwater Bay where Ms. Martell and Mr. Baratheon have set up their illicit love nest. One wonders where the wayward heir to the Lannister fortune is currently holed up and why in Seven he allows Ms. Martell to host the boozy Bobby B. in a Lannister stronghold. Has the young lion lost his claws or is he just biding his time before he truly pays his debt?”_ **

Tyrion closed his eyes, a pained expression flitting across the severe lines of his face. He then rose stiffly, walking around the desk to throw the folded paper into Jaime’s lap.

Suddenly, sick to his stomach, Jaime perused the article. There was a picture of Cersei and Robert locked in a suggestive embrace. Another of them laughing, champagne flutes held in their hands at some charity gala or another. On the opposite page, there was a picture of Jaime. It was dark, a bit grainy, but him all the same. He was sitting on a city bench, shoulders slumped, his face propped up in his hands. Behind him, a neon sign for a sex shop and bordello flashed its fluorescent siren call --“Live Nude Girls.” Jaime had absolutely no recollection of the moment, but the photographer must have captured him taking a breather after a workout. Jaime was wearing track pants and an old, ratty jumper, dark with sweat stains, his hair a mess. He looked all the world like a broken man.

“Varys is trash,” Jaime said finally, his voice rougher than he liked. “No one reads _The Master of Whisperers_ column anymore.”

“Everyone reads _The_ _Master of Whisperers_ column, Jaime.” Tywin shook his head. “The Spider controls half of this city.”

Jaime pushed the paper aside. “I hardly see how I am to blame for this. Cersei’s indiscretions are not my fault.”

“No, but your reaction to her indiscretions are,” Tywin hissed, unable to hide the contempt in his gaze. “I don’t understand you, son. You just stand there like some stupid, love-sick boy and let that woman walk all over you. Let her new lover live in your house -- in the house for which my money paid. Have you no pride? A sodding Martell, for gods’ sake!”

“Father ..”

“No,” Tywin cut him off. “This ends now, Jaime. I will not sit here and watch you make a fool of yourself -- make a fool of this family. You will publicly break your engagement and make a full statement to the papers. Then you will evict Cersei and the ridiculous Baratheon from your house immediately. If you don’t want to live there, you will sell the house - directly. It makes no difference to me. But I will not have this scandal impacting my family -- my business -- my reputation. Do you hear me, Jaime?”

Jaime swallowed, his face taking on a greenish cast. “Yes, Father.”

“Part of this is my fault,” Tywin said tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I have been far too tolerant of you and the way that you have chosen to conduct your life. I would have thought that a man given so much...” he gestured at Jaime. “ ...wealth, power, education, opportunity -- would have married and started a family by now. But no, you insist on tying yourself to a woman whose only goal it seems has been to string you along, to humiliate you publicly. And every time she humiliates you, you crawl back to her, hat in hand, begging for more abuse. It’s beyond comprehension, Jaime. You are not burdened by your brother’s impediments, why then do you insist on failing at everything?”

“Father, I …”

“Where are you staying currently?” Tywin’s voice was cold, unwilling to let Jaime get a word in. “Are you still with that Tarth woman?”

“With Brienne, yes,” Jaime replied hoarsely. “She’s been kind enough to take me …”

“Gods, do you realize how much money that woman has cost me over the years? How many projects she has derailed?” Tywin sighed. “In all seriousness, Jaime, I hope you do not have any ideas of actually settling down with her.” At Jaime’s protest, Tywin’s eyes grew suddenly thoughtful. “Unless, of course, you have any influence over her. I have always thought that the southern shoreline of Tarth would be an ideal tourist development -- resorts, condos, a shopping center, boat rentals, a pier perhaps with high-end shops and restaurants.” His eyes suddenly gleamed with a calculating sheen. “Think of all the money she could make for us -- and for Tarth, of course. She is, at least, high-born.”

Jaime barked out a laugh, happy to be discussing something other than his failings for one quick moment. “Sorry, Father, I think it’s safe to say I have absolutely no influence over Brienne when in comes to her homeland. Her love for the island is only rivaled by her love for environmental conservation. And you know as well as I do that Brienne couldn’t give a flying fuck about money. She’s constantly telling me that all the money in the Iron Bank will not matter in the least if we don’t have a planet.”

“Yes,” Tywin said, pursing his mouth as if he tasted something sour. “She would say that.” He shook his head. “Well, you can’t stay there forever, Jaime. People will talk. If Varys finds out where you are staying, it will be in all the papers, and what will you do then?”

“I told you -- I don’t give two shits about Varys.”

“Well, I do,” Tywin reprimanded, grabbing the paper back from Jaime’s grasp. “I may be the only one who cares about this family, but as long as I am alive and breathing, I will do everything in my power to keep the Lannister honor intact. Everything, Jaime.” He turned, looking at Jaime for a long moment, his eyes searching for something. Finally he spoke. “Do you know what keeps me up at night?”

“The fact that you’ve built an empire on the pain and suffering of King’s Landing’s smallfolk?” Jaime quipped wryly.

Tywin shot him a steely glance. “Watch your tone, Jaime. That pain and suffering has put food on your plate and clothes on your back since you were a babe in arms, and I haven’t heard you complain before. Like most of your generation, your righteous indignation rings rather hollow.”

Jaime winced at the hit.

“No,” Tywin continued. “What keeps me up at night is the fact that I’ve worked all my life to build an empire for this family --- to leave a legacy for my sons and for their sons, et cetera, et cetera. I’ve sacrificed, gone without, put myself at very real risk time and time again, and, yes, destroyed people along the way in service to that goal. And yet when I die, all of this,” he waved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “All of my work and sacrifice will be left to a drunk and a fool.” He looked at Jaime, shaking his head and tossed the tabloid down on his desk. “You are a constant disappointment, Jaime. Be better. Have some pride, for gods’ sake.”

Jaime closed his eyes, as the sting of Tywin’s words found their mark. Oh, the sentiment was nothing new. Jaime had heard it a million times before. Still it hurt every damn time.

“Yes, Father,” Jaime said quietly -- and then, when Tywin waved his hand dismissively towards the door, Jaime left without another word.  
...................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Bronn Blackwater, the head of Lannister Industries' security detail, was waiting for Jaime outside of Tywin’s office.

“Still alive?” he quipped, his gaze slightly pitying, as Jaime emerged from the study.

“Barely,” Jaime muttered. “Is my brother here?”

“Aye, he’s in the solar having a cocktail.”

“He’s already started drinking? It’s not even three o’clock.”

“You know Tyrion. Never met a more determined drinker. Of course, he’d have to be to put up with the old man.” Bronn nodded his head toward the closed study door and grinned. “And speaking of miserable excuses for human beings, how’s Cersei? Still a raging bitch?”

“Bronn,” Jaime warned.

“Sorry,” Bronn conceded, not at all sorry. “Still Cersei then, is she?”

“I have no idea how she is. Probably fine. Cersei always seems to land on her feet. However, I wouldn’t know. We’re over -- for good, this time.”

Bronn whistled. “Well, good on you, Lannister. Seems like you may have grown a pair since the last time you two broke up.” He slapped Jaime fondly on the shoulder. “So then where are you hiding out these days?”

“With a friend.”

“Ah, with the strapping giantess, eh?” Bronn grinned, elbowing Jaime knowingly.

Jaime frowned and moved out of reach. “Don’t call her that.”

“She still with that great big, red bastard?”

“He’s moved back to Beyond-the-Wall,” Jaime said tiredly, wondering vaguely how Bronn knew about Tormund. The sudden mental image of Bronn and Tyrion gossiping over tea like two grey-haired, old biddies flashed through his mind.

“Is that so?” Bronn replied, a glint in his eye.

Jamie watched Bronn warily, comprehension dawning. “Don’t even think about it, Bronn,” he replied testily. “She’s just broken up. Besides, you couldn’t hope to keep up with Brienne. She’d eat you alive.”

“Right. That’s exactly what I’m counting on,” Bronn grinned ferally.

Jaime shot him a disgusted look, and Bronn laughed in response. “What?” he replied with fake indignation. “Am I not good enough for your high-born giantess?”

“No you are not,” Jamie growled. “Not by a long shot.”

“Hey, I figure if the Wildling is good enough, there’s hope for us all.”

“There is certainly no hope for you,” Jaime shot out. “Brienne is not one of your little floozies, only good for a bit of slap and tickle before you’re off to the next one.”

“My little floozies? Slap and tickle?” Bronn laughed.

“You know damn well what I mean. Brienne is not like that.”

“You know, Lannister. You sound like a jealous boyfriend, you do.”

Jaime gaped indignantly. “Brienne is my friend. And friends don’t let friends date uncouth manwhores who have been treated for every STD known to mankind.”

Bronn positively cackled at that. “Oh, Lannister. You’re better than a fucking court jester. Fucking hilarious, you are.” He clasped Jaime on the shoulder. “Never fucking change, mate.”

......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime found Tyrion in the solar, halfway through a largish bottle of Arbor Gold.

“Jaime!” Tyrion cried, fumbling for another glass and spilling a generous pour into it. “I had no idea you were here. What a delightful surprise! How goes it?”

Jaime accepted the glass and wearily sank onto the settee. “Tyrion,” he nodded. He took a large gulp of wine, letting the astringent liquid flood his palate. Finally, he looked up. “Father summoned me.”

Tyrion shook his head sympathetically. “Ah, I thought that must be the case. I knew that you would never willingly come back to the Dread Keep, even to visit your favorite brother.”

“You’re my only brother. And why you stay is beyond me,” Jaime replied shaking his head. “Really, Tyrion. Isn’t it depressing spending so much time here? Why not move out?”

“The rent is spectacular,” Tyrion quipped. “And say what you will about his parenting skills, but Father does keep an excellent wine selection.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “But tell me, Jaime, what did our great and terrible liege lord want with you today?”

“Oh, the usual,” Jaime replied. “I’m a disappointment -- not living up to my potential -- much too soft to be a Lannister.” He took another large gulp. “Father says I need to publicly end it with Cersei and sell the house. Move on for good before I’m the laughingstock of the entire realm.”

“Hmm… well, it’s not often that I agree with Father, but in this case, he does sound rather sane for a change. He’s right, you know. The realm can go fuck itself, but this state of limbo is not good for you, Jaime.”

“Oh, Father doesn’t give a fuck about what’s good for me. It’s all about keeping up appearances with the high-born crowd. Something about Lannisters and pride -- Hear us roar, and all that medieval bullshit. He can’t stomach the fact that a lowly Martell is making his son out to be a pathetic fool in the society papers yet again.”

“Well not to be an ass, but that particular Martell always seems to have you by the short hairs,” Tyrion smirked, taking a gulp from his cup. “Perhaps it’s time to pry off her claws once and for all.”

“Gods, you sound just like Brienne,” Jaime sighed, swirling the wine around his cup.

“Ah, Brienne -- always the voice of reason.” As it happened Tyrion liked Brienne -- rather a lot, actually. And she was the voice of reason, particularly when it came to his brother. “How is she?”

“She’s good,” Jaime replied. “Actually, she’s going through a bit of a rough patch with Tormund moving away, but she’s been brilliant all the same. How she puts up with me, I’ll never know.”

“She is rather singular,” Tyrion mused. “Honestly, brother, I can’t believe she hasn’t kicked you out yet. I know from experience just how insufferable you are to live with. She must have the patience of a saint.”

“Oh she does. I’m considering submitting her name for canonization.” Jaime smiled fondly. “And it’s not just letting me live at her flat. She’s been there with me every step of the way -- through this whole Cersei thing, for the millionth time. And it hasn’t been easy, mind you.” He looked at Tyrion ruefully. “I know it may come as a shock, but I’ve been a bit of a disaster these past weeks.”

Tyrion gasped in mock surprise. “You? Surely not.”

However, Jaime suddenly grew quiet, his expression strangely grave. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, as if he had thought the better of what he was about to say. He inhaled slowly, scratching at the stubble on his chin. Finally making the decision, he spoke. “Do you know that the other night she actually sat me down and told me all the best things about me -- all the reasons why I am a good person?”

Tyrion paused, his cup half-way up to his mouth. “What?”

“Believe me, I thought it was a jape.” Jaime laughed uncomfortably, his cheeks heating for some strange reason. “But she was serious. She said it was time that someone held me and told me how lovely I was, and then .... well, she did.”

“Marry her.”

“Tyrion,” Jaime warned.

“Fine. I’ll marry her.”

“Stop.”

“Seriously, if we didn’t make such an incongruous couple physically, I’d be down on one knee -- damn the Wildling and anyone else who got in the way.” Tyrion looked at Jaime quizzically. “What was it like?”

“What?”

“To be held and praised like that.”

“It was…” Jaime broke off hoarsely. “It was strange. Comforting but strange. I don’t remember anyone ever doing that for me before. I mean, I barely remember Mother -- and Father ...” Jaime gazed out the window, searching the dark waters of the bay contemplatively. After a silent moment, he spoke. “Do you know, Tyrion, I don’t think that we are at all normal?”

Tyrion looked up from his cup.

“I mean -- us -- our family -- our interactions. It’s not normal to always be on the defense -- to always guard yourself, arm yourself against your family -- against the people who are supposed to love you most.”

“Jaime, Jaime, Jaime,” Tyrion tutted, trying for lightness. “It seems that you are equating love with family. Surely you jest?”

“That’s what I mean,” Jaime argued, his tone despondent. “It’s not normal to have such a view of family. To have such a view of love. Other people don’t think like that. What in hells is wrong with us?”

“Well,” Tyrion replied with a smirk, “let me take a stab at that one. Let’s see. I was raised by a man who blamed me for his wife’s death -- who blamed me for my physical imperfections and sought, at every turn, to remind me of just how much he did not, in fact, love me. You, brother, got away lightly by comparison. All you had to deal with was being told over and over again how stupid, soft, and weak-minded you were, first by Father and then by the woman who claimed to love you.” He looked at Jaime, his eyes suddenly losing their humorous light. “It’s a wonder we even have the capacity to love at all. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I do -- if I can actually love.” He broke off shaking his head, staring out into space for a quiet moment. Finally, he turned his gaze back to Jaime. “But you have it, Jamie. You have it in spades.”

“Do I? I’m beginning to think what I truly have is some warped, masochistic obsession masquerading as love.”

Tyrion hooted at that, slapping his knee in mirth. “Cersei Martell -- warped, masochistic obsession! I’ve never heard a truer descriptor of your ex, Jaime. And you claim you’re not good with words. Bravo!”

“It’s not funny, Tyrion,” Jaime said flatly. “It’s actually pretty fucked-up.”

“Of course it’s fucked-up, Jaime. I’ve been telling you that since you were thirteen. But as fucked-up as your relationship with your bloody reflection is, no one would ever doubt your love for her --- or your love for me -- or your love for the bloodless wight that is our father. In all seriousness, brother, I’ve seen the world hurt you time and time again, and still you love. You can’t help it. It is the very core of who you are, and all the twisted machinations of this family and Cersei bloody Martell can’t take that away from you. I’m glad. I’m so glad that Brienne sat you down and told you all the ways that you are noble and good. So glad that she can see past the shitty Lannister gilding to the true person underneath. I’ve always said she was extraordinary, even if she is a bloody great giant.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Jaime, I’m four feet tall. I’ve earned the right to make height jokes. Besides, you know how much I like Brienne.” Tyrion smiled, refilling his glass. “I’m actually quite jealous of the bond you have with her. You two are something else entirely. There’s not a bit of masochistic obsession there.” He looked over at Jaime, smirking devilishly. “Which begs the question then -- why not just sell the house and move in with Brienne permanently?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jaime rolled his eyes.

“I’m not the one being ridiculous, dear brother. You’ve been living there for how long?” He didn’t wait for Jaime to answer. “It’s going on months now, isn’t it? Tell me, Jaime, is there a reason why you haven’t moved into your own place, now that Cersei is with the foul Baratheon?”

Jaime felt the irritation color his cheeks. “I haven’t had the time to look for anything.”

“But you are planning on looking?

“Of course, I’m planning on looking. Don’t be a git about this, Tyrion.”

“I’m only making the observation that you don’t seem in much of a hurry to leave your gian… er Brienne. I wonder what the real reason is for your reluctance? Could it perchance be the fact that she is inclined to hold you and tell you how wonderful you are? That sounds rather nice to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Tyrion. But, whatever it is, you can leave it. I’m not in the mood.”

“Jaime, do you even listen to yourself? You’ve just told me how supportive Brienne is of you -- how she comforts you, edifies you, cares for you. You are constantly bragging about her, celebrating her -- and you won’t let anyone speak ill of her or, in Bronn’s case, even openly admire her.”

“If you think Bronn is speaking with any admiration, you’re more drunk than I’ve realized.”

Tyrion waved his complaint away. “Or maybe you’re just too close to it to see it. Bronn may be a crass fucker, but he’s always been astute. Half the time he says those things to you, it’s because he knows he will get a rise out of you. And he’s right. When it comes to Brienne, you do act like a jealous boyfriend.”

“Gods, it’s not like that, Tyrion,” Jaime sighed tiredly.

“Like what, brother?”

“Stop it. You know exactly what you’re insinuating.” Jaime shook his head, took a gulp of his wine, and closed his eyes. “It’s not at all what you’re thinking,” he said, carefully enunciating each word. “It’s fondness and friendship and deep respect. I respect her, which is more than I can say for Bronn.”

“Deep respect is it?” Tyrion prodded.

“Yes, Tyrion,” Jaime said testily. “I hold her in the highest esteem.”

“Ah yes, you greatly esteem the lady. Hold her in the highest regard, do you?” He shook his head mockingly and feigned a courtly bow. “Seriously, Jaime, are we suddenly in some stuffy, period drama that I’m unaware of? Besides,” he waggled his eyebrows, “wouldn’t it be fun to find out just how deep that respect really goes? I bet it goes ridiculously deep.”

“Stop trying to make this tawdry, Tyrion.” Jaime looked up, his expression pained. “She’s Brienne. We’re friends.” He blinked, his voice going suddenly hoarse. “It’s the best thing I have.”

Tyrion stopped at that, cocking his head to the side and examining his brother seriously. Seemingly finding what he was looking for, he nodded, his eyes going soft. “Ah, well then. I’m happy you have that, Jaime. Forgive me for teasing.”  
.........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

When Jaime finally sobered up enough to leave, it was well past dark. He thought about calling Brienne so she wouldn’t worry, but Tyrion’s teasing had messed with Jaime’s head. Did he depend too much on the wench? Was he perhaps crossing the line into boyfriend territory with his neediness and inability to be alone? They did spend a great deal of time together and were sure to spend more, especially now that Tormund was back Beyond-the-Wall. He thought back to this morning -- to his strange embarrassment. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he should look for his own place. However, his heart hurt just thinking of it. Honestly a small, secret part of him still desperately hoped that Cersei would burn through Robert like she had burned through all her other dalliances and then come running back to Jaime once again. Another part of him -- the more mentally stable part -- knew that Brienne was sometimes the only thing that kept him from crawling back to Cersei, and if he did nothing else, he had to resist crawling back to Cersei. It was a bloody impossible situation.

Sighing, Jaime got into his car. No, he decided. He would not call Brienne to let her know he would be home late. He wouldn’t. He’d simply get there when he got there. He was an adult after all -- able to come and go as he pleased without checking in with anyone.

However adult or not, Jaime still hoped that, when he did get home, Brienne would be on the couch watching some treacly show. All he wanted to do after such a crap day was rest his head in Brienne’s lap and shut out the world.

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

When the unfamiliar number rang through a third time, Brienne thought she should probably pick it up. It could be important. She wiped a wet hand on a dish towel and answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Brienne Tarth?”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled but unconcerned.

“Yes, this is King’s Landing Hospital calling, Ms. Tarth. A Mr. Jaime Lannister has you down as his emergency contact on file, and I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

The room went white.

Brienne had read of this happening in extreme cases of shock, but she had never experienced it herself. She looked around, but everything had lost its edge, its form. She reached her hand out in what she thought was the direction of the counter, her fingers making contact with something hard. Brienne fought desperately to swim out of the haze, to make her brain comprehend and her mouth speak. “Please?” she finally managed.

“I’m afraid there was a traffic accident. Mr. Lannister’s alive, but he’s in surgery.”

_Alive. Alive. He was alive._ Brienne exhaled a painful breath, turning and sinking to her knees against the cabinet, her head falling back onto its solid bulk.

“Ms. Tarth? Are you there?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding strange and exaggerated.

“He’ll be in surgery for a while, but we wanted to inform you. Perhaps you could contact his family members.”

“Yes,” she said again in the strange voice. _His family. Jaime’s family._

“All right then,” the voice said briskly. “He’ll be in the recovery wing at the hospital when he comes out of surgery. You can visit him there.”

“Do you,” Brienne said, desperately straining to make her mouth form the syllables necessary. “Do you know how badly he is hurt?”

“His injuries are no longer life-threatening, Ms. Tarth. However, they are extensive.”

“Yes,” Brienne said absently. “I should go see him then.”

“Ms. Tarth?” the voice said, sympathy cracking through the brisk professionalism. “He won’t be out of surgery for a while now. Perhaps it would be better for you to take some time before coming here. Have a cup of tea, sit quietly a bit. Take time to process.”

“Yes,” Brienne said blankly. “Tea. Of course.”

“All right then, Ms. Tarth. Please call us at this number, if you have any questions about anything.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She hung up the phone in a fog. She could feel the adrenaline coursing through her body, filling her gut and pushing inexorably up. She ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

_Jaime. Gods Jaime._

When she was through, she sat back against the tub, cold and sweaty, breathing deeply through her nose. This must be shock. Shock -- yes, of course. It must be. She exhaled sharply. Damn it! She didn’t have time for shock. She had to pull herself together -- had to pull herself together now. Jaime was in surgery. His injuries were extensive. She needed to be there for him.

_Come on, Tarth. You must do this._

Hauling herself up, Brienne splashed cold water on her white face, rinsed her mouth, and went back into the kitchen for the kettle. When the water was ready, she poured it over the tea bag, watching the curls of steam float from her mug. She reached for the milk. Only then did she allow herself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for being so lovely. Your kudos and comments are much appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I interest you in yet another Kingslayer origin story? Too late -- no backsies! 
> 
> In all seriousness, trigger warning: mentions of sexual assault.

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**With broken words I tried to say**  
** Honey, don’t you be afraid**  
** If we’ve got nothing, we’ve got us**

**One Republic "Something I Need"**  
**.**..........................................................................................................................................................................................

By the time Brienne had composed herself and arrived at the KLH, Jaime was out of surgery. She had thought to find him in the crowded recovery room of the casualty wing, but he had been there for only a few, brief moments before he was officially moved to his own private room -- the Lannister influence clearing the way.

Despite her initial shock, Brienne had eventually had the presence of mind to call Tyrion. Unfortunately, when she finally was able to reach him, Tyrion had been quite drunk. It had taken her ages to make him understand that there had been an accident and that Jaime was hurt. From what the police could ascertain, another driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and had struck Jaime’s car, pushing him into the concrete embankment. His vehicle had flipped and rolled. Luckily for Jaime, his luxury car had the internal framework of an infantry tank. However, the night being nice, Jaime had been resting his hand out of the window at the time of the collision, and it was crushed when the car flipped. The doctors had tried to save the hand, but the damage had been too extensive. And in the end, Jaime had lost two fingers and a good portion of his palm, with considerable nerve damage to the remaining appendages.

When he had finally been able to suss out what had happened, Tyrion had wanted to come to the hospital immediately. However, Brienne had assured him that she had it well in hand (the irony of that expression not lost on Tyrion, even in his drunken state). She convinced him that it would be best for all parties involved if he stayed home to sleep it off, instead of coming down and adding to the mounting chaos. After much argument, Tyrion had agreed, promising instead to call his father with the news. Tywin Lannister was apparently on his way back from an important business meeting in Essos and wouldn’t arrive until the early afternoon. Brienne worried that Tyrion was not exactly up to the task of calling his father; however, she didn’t relish speaking to Tywin, herself, so she reluctantly acquiesced to Tyrion’s insistence that he was “completely capishable ... capelubh....” … that he could do it.

At the hospital, Brienne was well prepared to summon her severe and imposing barrister’s voice in order to “talk herself” into Jaime’s room -- not being a member of the immediate family. However, the Lannister influence must have been at work again, for as soon as she approached the nurse’s station, Brienne had been greeted by name and led into Jaime’s room, no questions asked.

The minute she saw Jaime’s prone form lying in bed, Brienne’s careful composure went all to hell. It was ridiculous really. Jaime looked better than she had expected him to look --lying in the stiff, hospital linens peacefully, half a corpse and half a god. His face was bruised and scraped; his shoulder, exposed by the open neck of his hospital gown, was black and blue; and his right hand was bandaged tightly. However, he looked like he was posing for some Renaissance painting -- a little more pale and drawn than normal, but beautiful just the same. The stupid wanker! No one had any business looking so good after major surgery. But then, of course ... there was the hand.

Brienne looked down at Jaime’s poor right hand, wrapped up in layers and layers of gauze. The doctors had thought it very positive -- the fact that they had been able to salvage so much. However when he woke, Brienne was certain that Jaime would not share their feelings. No, there was no getting around it -- it was going to be a blow. But, it could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse.

Before she could get too maudlin, Brienne shook herself out of her reverie, roughly scrubbing her face with her hand. She glanced around the room, pulling what looked to be a surprisingly comfortable hospital chair to Jaime’s bedside. Reaching out, she gently grasped Jaime’s good hand in both of her own and bowed her forehead to it.

Brienne had never been a religious woman. She had been raised by a man who thought that the old gods and the new could all go get stuffed, every last one of them. However, at the feel Jaime’s cold fingers pressed against her forehead, Brienne found herself mumbling a prayer of gratitude. She didn’t mean to do it -- wasn’t even conscious of it. However, the ragged words of thanks spilled out of her mouth unbidden until, tangled with her tears, they lost all meaning.

.........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Brienne closed the door to Jaime’s hospital room and leaned back against its solid bulk with a heavy sigh. Gods, she needed a damn coffee -- or a cuppa -- or a stiff drink, before she bloody well killed the idiot.

The doctors had warned her that Jaime would be quite high when he came out of general anesthesia. They had him on a heavy dose of pain medication, and that, mixed with the normal effects of anesthesia, usually resulted in some rather unusual behavior in patients.

At first, Brienne had been relieved. If Jaime were drugged up, he wouldn’t fully comprehend what had happened to him. And, in fact, he didn’t fully comprehend what had happened to him-- asking Brienne to explain it numerous times before shrugging blankly and reaching out with his good hand to playfully bop her on the nose. Yet despite his good temper, in the end, high Jaime proved to be a bit much.

Everything had been fine at first. Jaime had simply held Brienne’s hand very tightly with his good one and told her how much he admired and esteemed her, tears streaming down his face earnestly. However after that relatively staid outburst, things got very chaotic very quickly. Jaime, unhappy with the feel of the hospital linens, decided that it was suddenly imperative to completely disrobe and to exit the hospital post haste.

Red faced, Brienne had had to strong-arm him back into bed time and time again, fixing the gown he had tried to wrench off, telling him in no uncertain terms that he must not flash the nurses -- it was not at all gentlemanly. He had laughed at that, cheekily asking her if she had ever known him to be a gentleman, all while trying to strip bare and giggling at her shocked expression.

With Herculean effort, Brienne had finally gotten Jaime back in bed and all of his important bits decently covered. She had even managed to apologise to the bemused nurse who had received quite a show. As a last resort, Brienne had then turned on the telly to some lurid soap opera, hoping to distract Jaime long enough for her to use the facilities and find a damn coffee. She hadn’t slept in ages and needed some caffeine before she completely lost her mind. However, she knew that she would have to be quick about it. She didn’t have long before Jaime’s exhibitionism was sure to rear its ugly head once again.

Groaning wearily, Brienne pushed up off of the door and made her way down the hall to the nurses’ station to ask directions to the cafeteria. Gods, she was bloody starving. Maybe she would get a cream bun with her coffee. Maybe two. She hadn’t eaten anything since the leftover curry she had reheated the night before. However, before she could even make it to the nurses’ station, the lift to the fifth floor opened, and Brienne found herself suddenly face to face with Jaime’s father.

“Ms. Tarth.” Tywin Lannister pressed his thin lips together and nodded perfunctorily. Dressed in an impeccable grey suit and a black woolen overcoat, he looked extremely out of place in the blunted, dingy halls of the hospital.

“Mr. Lannister,” Brienne replied, feeling instantly ill at ease and all of about twelve years old.

Brienne had known Tywin Lannister for years; had interacted with Tywin Lannister for years; and, for years, Tywin Lannister had scared the ever-living shit out of her. It had something to do with his supercilious demeanor and perpetual dour expression. All he had to do was glance at her, and she felt just like she did as a school girl back on Tarth. For all of his expensive grace, Tywin reminded Brienne of her former headmaster-- an anemic septon whose one claim to fame as the head of the most exclusive preparatory school on the island was his intense dislike of children. With her awkward, graceless body and uncouth manners, Brienne had been a particular target of the headmaster’s ire. And somehow, whenever she was in the presence of Tywin Lannister, Brienne once again felt like that schoolgirl at the mercy of the headmaster, all scraped elbows, knobbly knees, and large teeth.

“Have you seen him?” Tywin cut through her uneasy, mental dithering.

“I have, yes,” Brienne replied, her face coloring for no reason at all. _“Come on, Brienne,”_ she chastised herself. _“Pull yourself together. Jaime’s counting on you.”_ “He’s quite banged up, and the hand…” she trailed off.

“Yes,” Tywin said, his expression strangely emotionless. “I’ve been informed of the nature of his injuries. Is he awake?”

“He is,” Brienne replied. “He’s on some pretty heavy drugs, though ...er … he’s not really himself at the moment.”

Tywin frowned as if inconvenienced.

“You can see him, of course,” Brienne continued hurriedly. “He’s OK to have visitors. Only the drugs are making him slightly … off, so um … fair warning.”

Tywin inhaled testily, as if Brienne was wasting his time by answering his questions. He gestured impatiently, one long, thin hand waving down the hall.

“Yes. Right,” Brienne said, immediately moving into pacification mode, all ideas of a coffee break abandoned. “If you will just follow me, Mr. Lannister.” She lead him back to Jaime’s swanky private room, hoping for Jaime’s sake, that her friend had fallen asleep. However, no such luck. When she pushed open the door, Jaime was sitting up, a wild, glazed look in his eye, his hospital gown rucked-up obscenely.

“Jaime,” she said hurriedly, crossing to his bed to tidy his hair and fix his gown before Tywin could see. She turned down the volume of the television and hissed, “Your father’s here.”

“What? Hah! You’re winding me up, wench,” Jaime said, slurring his words a bit. He turned his head and tried to nip at her hand which was smoothing down his hair. Brienne batted away his mouth, nervously frowning and glancing at Tywin out of the corner of her eye.

“Jaime,” Tywin said sternly, walking across the room to Jaime’s bedside.

“Well blow me,” Jaime breathed out, his voice incredulous. “It’s my father.” He turned to Brienne. “Brienne, my father is here,” he said very loudly, grabbing her hand with his good one.

“Yes,” Brienne winced. “I just said that.”

Jaime pulled her forward slightly. “You don’t really have to blow me, Brienne. That’s just an expression, you know?” he explained, his face earnest and worried.

“Yes, I know,” Brienne mumbled, her cheeks red.

Tywin cleared his throat. “How are you feeling, Jaime?”

“Aces!” Jaime cried. He looked down at his hospital bed. “Except, I can’t seem to find my other arm.” His bandaged limb was tied up across his chest. He tried to raise it but couldn’t. “Why do they tie me up, Brienne? I don’t like it.”

“I already told you, Jaime,” Brienne explained patiently, her voice low. “They don’t want you banging your hand. They want you to keep it elevated.”

“Right,” Jaime grinned. He looked back at Tywin suspiciously. “Brienne, my father’s here,” he whispered loudly.

“Yes, Jaime.”

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, his voice small.

“No, Jaime,” Brienne soothed.

He frowned anxiously, his eyes clouding as he gazed at Tywin. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking with emotion.

Tywin’s eyes widened, as he stepped back slightly. “Why? Whatever for?”

“For mucking everything up. For losing my arm.”

“Jaime, you did not lose your arm,” Tywin said tersely. “You lost two of your fingers.”

“I lost my fingers?” Jaime cried. He turned to Brienne panicked. “Which fingers did I lose? Oh no, are they important ones?” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Brienne, will you go find my fingers, please? I can’t remember where I lost them. Gods, my poor fingers! Where are they?”

Tywin turned to look at the door, as if contemplating a swift and immediate retreat.

However, Brienne simply grabbed Jaime’s face, meeting his gaze calmly. “Shh… Jaime. Remember, we went through this. You were in a motor accident. The doctors had to amputate two of the fingers on your right hand. They needed to save you, and it couldn’t be helped.”

Jaime nodded. “It couldn’t be helped,” he said sadly.

“Yes, well,” Tywin said finally, his voice uncharacteristically rough. “I expect that you are getting the very best care.” He looked around the private room for which his money had paid. “I’ve informed the medical staff that they are to keep me updated of any decisions they make regarding your injuries and your further rehabilitation. You, of course, will let me know if you need anything at all.”

Jaime looked at Tywin dazedly. “Brienne,” he said quietly. “My father’s here.”

Brienne wouldn’t swear to it, but she thought she saw the corner of Tywin’s mouth raise infinitesimally at that.

Tywin stepped forward, placing one hand on the tray table by Jaime’s bed. “If you need anything, son, anything at all, make sure someone informs me.”

Jaime nodded dumbly, his eyes wide.

Tywin turned to Brienne. “Ms. Tarth, if I could speak with you out in the hall for a few moments.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, extricating her hand from Jaime’s.

“Are you going with my father?” Jaime said nervously, reluctant to let her go.

“Just for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

“Are you in trouble?” he said worriedly.

“No, Jaime. I’m not in trouble.” She eased him back against his pillows. “Now, just close your eyes and rest for a few moments, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

She was almost out the door when she heard Jaime mumble, “Safe travels, wench. I love you.”

She smiled fondly and followed Tywin out into the hall.

Tywin was standing with his back to her, watching the activity of the nurses’ station.

“He’s going to be OK, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne said quietly.

“Yes,” he said turning to face her. He cleared his throat. “I had arranged for Jaime to go to a private convalescent facility after he is released from the hospital. However, something tells me he will reject the offer and want, instead, to continue taking advantage of your hospitality.”

“He’s not taking advantage, sir,” Brienne demurred. “He’s my friend. He can stay as long as he likes.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you will allow me to arrange for a private nurse to come and help out once he has been released to your care.”

“I thank you, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne replied, strangely touched that Tywin wasn’t fighting the issue of the nursing home. “However, it will be Jaime’s call whether he wants or even needs a nurse.” She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s best just to rip off the bandage and get on with life. Of course, you’re welcome to discuss it with him -- I mean, when he’s not completely off his head on pain medication.”

Tywin gave a ghost of a smile. “Yes, that seems the best course of action.” He turned to go. “Ms. Tarth,” he said, turning once more to her. “I’m sure if he had full control over his faculties, my son would thank you for all that you’ve done for him and for all that you continue to do.”

“Like I said, Mr. Lannister -- no thanks necessary. I’m happy to do it.”

“Just the same, Ms. Tarth, a debt is a debt, and a Lannister…”

“Always pays his debts. Yes, I know, sir,” Brienne interrupted. “Very noble, indeed; but I assure you there is no debt.”

“Hmm...” Tywin mused. He surveyed her calculatingly, and Brienne once more felt the blood rise to her cheeks. Why did this man always make her feel like she had just spectacularly failed all of her A Levels?

“It seems,” he said finally, “that I have underestimated you once again, Brienne Tarth. Perhaps one of these days I will learn not to. Good day, my dear.” With that, he gave her a faint smile and took his leave.

.........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

As annoying and unpredictable as drugged-up Jaime had been, he was ten times better than the sullen, depressed Jaime that came after the drugs had worn off. That Jaime barely talked and, then when he did, often screamed in temper. At first, the nurses were clamoring over who got to take care of dishy Mr. Lannister in Room 504. However, once the heavy drugs were out of his system, their tune changed. Brienne had to resort to bringing little treats for the nurses every time she visited, both in an attempt to soothe wounded egos and to avert any unfortunate case of “accidental” poisoning. She didn’t blame Jaime -- well, much. So much had changed for him in such a short period of time. It was a great deal to take in. However, as the days went by and Jaime continued to take out his anger on everyone around him, Brienne found herself rapidly losing patience.

It all came to a head the night before Jame was to be released. After a particularly long day battling it out in court, Brienne arrived at the hospital to find Jaime in a vicious, black mood. Apparently he had already screamed at the evening nurse when she had tried to administer his pain medication and caused the poor woman to break down into tears. After a long and heated bout with him, Brienne finally found the reason for his tantrum. He had gone to a follow-up appointment with the doctor earlier that day which meant that he had fully seen his hand for the first time since the accident.

“It’s hideous,” Jaime said tensely, his jaw tight and sharp. “They unwrapped it today, and I got a nice, long look.” His eyes flashed dangerously. “A good part of my hand is gone, two fingers missing. What’s left is sickening -- covered in wounds and scars. It’s like something out of those horror films Tormund likes so much.”

Brienne smiled faintly at that, wishing for a moment that Tormund was there to help handle this unpredictable Jaime. She kicked off her uncomfortable work shoes, stretching her stockinged feet tiredly before coming around to sit on the bed beside Jaime. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve heard tell that women like scars.”

“Not these,” Jaime replied flatly. “No one could like these.”

“It’s going to be OK, Jaime.”

“It’s not going to be remotely OK.”

“I’m not saying it’s good,” Brienne tried to explain patiently. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m just saying that it could have been so much worse.” She looked at him. “You’ll get through this. It’s a blow, but you’re still the same person.”

“You’ll get through this,” Jaime bit out, looking down at his wrapped hand. “You’re still the same person.” He glared at her furiously. “That’s easy for you to say, wench. You’ve never had to get by on your looks.”

Brienne looked up at him sharply, the air in the hospital room suddenly still. Part of her wanted to leave it. Jaime had had an exhausting day. But part of her -- the part of her that had spent the day getting brow-beaten in court by an opposing counsel who had smugly insulted her every chance he got -- wanted to call Jamie out on it. When Jaime huffed indignantly and shot her a withering glare, the latter part won out. “Are you kidding me, Lannister?” she said, her voice flat and cold.

He growled in annoyance. “Fuck’s sake, Brienne. You just don’t understand.”

“Oh, I don’t understand? No, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have my physical appearance work against me at all, would I?”

“Come now, wench,” Jaime bit out, frustration marking his tone. “You know I didn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, don’t ‘wench’ me, you idiot,” she spat. “You’ve had one tiny mar in the great beauty that is Jaime Lannister and somehow I wouldn’t understand how difficult it is to be less than physically perfect. I hope to Seven that this is just the numerous drugs in your system talking, Jaime. I’d hate to think that you were really that daft.”

“It’s not a tiny mar!” Jaime cried, suddenly irrationally furious. He raised his bandaged hand and waved it back and forth. “I lost half of my godsdamn hand, Brienne. Get off of your self-righteous high horse. Not everything is about you!” Gods he was angry -- and tired -- and nauseous -- and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. All he wanted to do was feel sorry for himself without getting a lecture from the goddess of the stiff upper lip, herself.

“Oh, my self righteous high horse, is it?” Brienne growled, her eyes furious. “Hmm… OK, why don’t you get back to me, Jaime, when you’ve been mistaken for the opposite gender in half of your daily interactions.”

Jaime’s angry smirk froze on his face.

“Get back to me when the world immediately thinks you are gay because you don’t fit their bloody gender stereotypes.” She was more than warmed up now. Her color high. “Get back to me when people make bets about who can fuck you first because, unless there’s monetary compensation, they sure as hells are not going to be jumping into bed with a great, big beast of a woman, now are they?”

“Brienne,” Jaime cried, stricken, trying desperately to stop her tirade. He had not meant for this to happen at all. What had he been thinking? As if Brienne wouldn’t understand how nasty the world could be. Fuck, he was a total idiot. He couldn’t even blame the drugs.

“No, Jaime, I’ve come to terms with all of this a long time ago. I know who I am. I know my worth. I know that, even though I don’t fit into the narrow constructs of what makes a woman conventionally attractive, I still have value. I still have worth and grace and maybe even beauty, whatever the hell that means. But knowing all this, I still wake up nine times out of ten wanting to change every godsdamn thing about myself. So don’t tell me I don’t understand. Don’t tell me I don’t understand what it’s like to be _less than_ in a world that demands perfection.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Brienne,” Jamie backpedaled hurriedly, grabbing her forearm to soothe her. “I’m an idiot. Damn it!” He shook his head, his nausea increasing by the second, as the guilt rolled in. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just being my normal, asshole self. Hells, it seems like I can’t even feel sorry for myself these days without fucking the whole thing up.”

“It’s OK,” Brienne said, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had begun. She collapsed against the raised headboard of the bed.

“No it’s not at all OK. I’m a truly terrible person. I apologize.”

Brienne shifted her tired gaze over to him. “No, Jaime, it’s not your fault. Sometimes I forget. You’re the golden child. You’ve always been.” She waved her hand in his general direction. “Rich, beautiful, powerful. You’ve never had something important taken away from you before, and you’re struggling. Of course you are.” She covered his hand with her own where it lay on her forearm. “It’s difficult, but you’ll adapt. We all do in the end.”

Jaime looked at her strangely at that, his eyes suddenly shuttered, the contrition and empathy fading away to blankness. He shook off her hand and slowly pulled his arm away.

Wondering what she had said to cause such a reaction, Brienne searched Jaime’s face, watching it close in front of her.

“You don’t think I’ve had something taken away?” Jaime said finally, his jaw tightening, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Something important wrenched from me? Did you forget that you are in the presence of the Kingslayer?”

“Jaime.” It was Brienne’s turn to placate now.

Aside from their first introduction, Brienne had rarely referred to Jaime by his infamous title. She had seen his wince when she had initially called him Kingslayer in Baelish’s office and had steered clear of the moniker ever since. She still had no idea what had happened that night with Aerys Targaryen. When she and Jaime had transitioned from good acquaintances to friends, Brienne had brought up the incident, asking Jaime if the rumors were true. However, he had simply stated that legally he couldn’t talk about it and that people often made mistakes in their youth. She knew Jaime felt guilty about it; and despite not knowing all the details, Brienne assumed that he had something for which to feel guilty.

“No,” Jaime said, refusing to be mollified. “I had my whole identity taken away from me. My honor. My name. My privacy.”

“Yes, but Jaime,” Brienne said gently, “in that case, it was simply a consequence of your actions -- granted a harsh consequence, but a consequence all the same. That’s different than someone taking something from you for no reason.” She gestured to his hand and then to herself. "Different from the world punishing you for no reason.”

Jaime looked over at her, his eyes glassy and intense. “You think so?” He turned his gaze to the IV tube dripping fluids into his arm, staring for a long moment.

“Brienne,” he said softly. “Do you know why I beat Aerys Targaryen almost to death?”

Brienne startled, sitting up in the bed and staring over at Jaime. “No. I didn’t know that you had actually beaten him. I had hoped not.”

“Oh, I beat him.”

“Gods, Jaime,” Brienne said wretchedly. “But why?”

“Hah!” Jaime spat. “I’m forbidden to talk about it on pain of lawsuit, but what the hells. Gods knows I have shit for honor, so what’s the harm in breaking one more vow?” He rubbed his face with his good hand, gathering his thoughts.

“Aerys and Cersei were having an affair -- that part is true. I found out. Of course, I found out. She was never good at hiding her indiscretions. I think she actually got off on me finding out -- on hurting me.”

Brienne tsked at that, but Jaime shook his head and continued.

“I went to confront him -- just like I had confronted the last man with whom Cersei had cheated -- just like I would confront the next man.” He turned to Brienne. “That part of the rumour never made sense. They said I was enraged enough to beat a man senseless because he had, for lack of a better word, cuckolded me. But so many men had cuckolded me before him, and I had never become excessively violent.” He sighed. “No, I drove out there that night to confront Aerys -- maybe knock the smug look off of his face. That’s it.”

“The door was unlocked when I arrived. No servants around. I walked in and heard noises from what I assumed was his bedroom. I thought maybe he had Cersei in there. Maybe they were…” He broke off, his face green in the flickering light. “It certainly didn’t sound like noises of enjoyment -- not from the woman, at least. I opened the door and saw him in the midst of it. The girl was bound to the bed, welts and what I later found out were burns all over her body. Aerys was going at it, assaulting her … hurting her, smiling the whole time. She saw me first. Looked up at me in terror…” Jaime broke off, his voice strangled.

“Fuck, she was just a child, Brienne. Couldn’t have been more than fourteen at most.” His face twisted in pain, his good hand grabbing the sheets under him, searching for support.

“Growing up, I had heard the rumors. Aerys and I were of a similar age and from the same social circle so I had heard the boasting many times. _Aerys likes them young and fresh -- likes to ‘spoil’ them himself._ I never thought much about it back then. But she…” he broke off, closing his eyes. A silent tear escaped from behind his eyelid and slipped down his face. Brienne wanted desperately to reach out and wipe it away, but she didn’t want to break into his reverie and risk scaring him back into the silence he had so carefully guarded all these years.

“Gods, she was just so young and terrified. I got her away from him. Hit him a couple of times to incapacitate him. I was going to call the police -- had my phone out and everything. Aerys just laughed at that. He told me to call, dared me to do it. He said if he had a gold dragon for every bitch that had tried to press charges, he’d be a very wealthy man. His father would get him off. He would pay off the family, and the girl would claim she was older and that it was consensual. It had happened before, and it would happen again. He was the King -- he’d just buy his way past justice. And as I listened to him and listened to the girl sobbing and retching in the corner, I had a thought.” Jaime broke off, his face looking haunted. “I remembered that my family was just as rich as the Targaryans. If he could buy his way past justice, than surely I could as well.”

He turned to Brienne, his eyes dark. “I knew it was wrong, Brienne. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. And, gods help me, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I beat him -- hit him, over and over until that pretty face was no longer recognizable … until I was convinced that there was no way in seven hells that the King of King’s Landing would have the capability to rape anyone ever again. And when I was sure he was broken for good, I left him there, in his own filth -- not giving a fuck if he lived or died.”

“I asked the girl if she wanted me to take her to the police. Told her that she could tell them the truth, not to worry about me. But she didn’t want to go. The poor child was frightened out of her mind. He had done things to her that you wouldn’t believe unless you had seen it for yourself. She was humiliated and desperate and so, so young. So I got her up and dressed, gave her all the money I had on me at the time, and told her to contact me if I could help her in any way, and drove her home. And then I went to my father and told him everything.” He closed his eyes, breathing in and out steadily.

“You know the rest of the story. The scandal, the papers. What little reputation I had was burned to ash. I became the Kingslayer, a pariah, a man with shit for honor. However, I was right in the end. I was able to buy my way past justice, avoid jail. And lest we forget, Aerys is no longer. The King is dead. Long live the bloody Kingslayer.” He laughed harshly.

Brienne flinched.

“But you are wrong, Brienne,” he continued tiredly. “I have had something important taken away from me, besides this.” He held up his bandaged hand.

“Jaime,” Brienne said when she could finally find her voice. “Why did none of this come out? Why didn’t you insist?”

“I signed a nondisclosure agreement,” he replied, his voice devoid of expression. “It was part of my sentencing.”

“Why though?” she argued. “Surely you could have refused. Even if your punishment was a little more severe, it would have been worth it to clear your name -- to reveal Aerys as the nasty shit he was.”

“It was better this way,” he croaked. “What I did was hardly noble.”

“You saved the girl -- saved so many girls, Jaime. You did …”

“I broke the law, Brienne. I almost killed a man -- maimed him for life.”

“But he was a rapist …”

“Yes, and I was as good as a murderer. Wanted to be one, in fact.”

Brienne looked at him then, studying him for a long moment, her gaze intense. “Oh,” she said finally, understanding dawning. “You felt like you deserved it -- a punishment for what you had done. You didn’t fight to clear your name because you didn’t want it cleared. You wanted to face repercussions for your actions.” She shook her head. “You wanted to do bloody penance, Jaime, and if the courts weren’t going to give you it, you were going to damn well give it to yourself.”

Instead of acknowledging her words, Jaime just closed his eyes tiredly. “I’m not a good man, Brienne,” he said raggedly. “I keep waiting for you to discover that.”

Brienne shifted closer to him on the bed. Her heart literally hurt for this tired, broken man in front of her. She wished she could take away just a little of his pain, ease his burden just a bit -- make him see himself like she saw him. But he was so caught up in his guilt and self-loathing that she had no idea how to reach him. The whole thing was utterly heartbreaking.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, Brienne grabbed Jaime’s uninjured hand where it lay on the sheet between them, bringing it up to kiss it and hold it against her heart tightly. “You _are_ a good man, Jaime Lannister,” she said, her voice raw. “And I keep waiting for _you_ to discover that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with this little story. I truly appreciate all the support.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei blessedly moves on. Jaime is sad -- and then even more sad -- and then inconveniently hard up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puts on Crocodile Hunter voice: “Now, if you look closely, you’ll see one of the more common tropes in its natural habitat. Ah, there she is. Crikey, she’s a beaut! Just watch her go! So predictable!”

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................

**I know that we’re not the same**  
** But I’m so damn glad that we’ve made it**  
** To this time**  
** This time now**

**One Republic "Something I Need"**

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Jaime pulled to a stop, his face strained, his breathing heavy. “Fuck. Gods ...pain...the hand ...dying,” he panted. What in the seven hells had made him think this was a good idea?

Up early, he had seen Brienne filling her water bottle, her running kit on, and he had been struck with the brilliant notion to join her on her morning run -- after a week of doing nothing more physical than changing the channels on the television.

Brienne had been unenthusiastic about the idea at first (smart girl), but had eventually given in to his whiny pleadings, rooting around in Jaime’s room for his discarded sling and patiently affixing it to him, despite his protests. She didn’t want his hand to jar and cause him pain.

Jaime had flippantly assured her that pain was now his middle name and that, after all he had been through, he could certainly handle a short run -- of course he could.

Only he couldn’t. He could not handle a short run.

Jaime crouched down over his knees trying not to vomit. His lungs burned, and he worked to take in big gulps of air, his hand throbbing painfully in the thrice blasted sling.

At his cry Brienne stopped, immediately turning around and circling back. She approached him, concerned but barely winded. “I was worried this was a poor idea,” she said, coming over to place a steady hand on his back and offer him water.

When Jaime staggered upright, she reached over to push a sweaty strand of hair out of his eyes, accidentally grazing his heated cheek, and Jaime unconsciously leaned forward. Despite the pain and nausea, he couldn’t help the flush that infused his face at her touch, and his eyes flashed up to meet her worried gaze. Gods, not this again! Jaime shook his head to clear it and leaned back, hoping she would think his reaction just a byproduct of exercise and exhaustion. And maybe it was just a byproduct -- or perhaps it was simply the pain pills giving him delusions once again. One could only hope.

Willfully ignoring the heated moment in favor of the burning nausea that was currently gripping him, Jaime accepted the offer of water gratefully. “Shit. I’m sorry to ruin your run,” he apologised between gulps.

Brienne waved him off. “No worries. I’ll make it up later.” She turned to him, cheekily twisting her lips into a smirk. “Running is my middle name, you know.”

“Fair hit,” Jaime conceded, closing his eyes tiredly, as the world suddenly started spinning.

Before he lost his footing, Brienne reached out and grabbed his shoulder, efficiently turning him around. “Come on, Lannister,” she said, a warm, firm hand across his back. “We’ll pick up one of those complicated coffees you love so much on the way home, and then I’ll make you eggs and toast and pop you in front of your morning shows.”

“Eggs and toast? No smoothie? You’re too good to me, wench,” Jaime said, both relieved and totally sick to his stomach. It figured, the one day Brienne offered to make a proper breakfast was the day he felt like crap on a stick.

“I AM too good to you, Jaime Lannister,” she replied, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

“Ah fuckkity fuck fuck …gods, bloody fuck!” Jaime groaned, as Brienne unwound the sticky bandages from his hand.

Jaime had been determinedly choking down his eggs and toast when Brienne had noticed that the gauze around his wound was marked with a great deal of bloody discharge, most likely in response to his ill-advised run and the fact that he had accidentally banged his hand against the door of the coffee shop, trying to navigate his way out holding on to a massive, whipped cream topped drink. He hadn’t wanted her to, but Brienne had insisted on changing his dressings.

Jaime had loudly protested that he could change the stupid bandages himself. He didn’t need a sodding nursemaid. He wasn’t a child godsdamn it!

Brienne had then pointed out that he was crap with his left hand and that he was much more adept at throwing tantrums than any child in the Seven bloody Kingdoms. Besides if he were good little lad and sat still, she’d bring him home a sweet after she finished work. So Jaime had swallowed two pain pills and what was left of his dignity and submitted to her ministrations.

“Ah Seven, Jaime. You have to do a better job of keeping this clean and dressed,” Brienne scolded, tugging gently at a piece of gauze stuck to his palm where his wound had oozed, and the liquid had dried, forming what amounted to glue.

“Shit, that hurts,” Jaime winced. “I don’t want to see it,” he admitted. “Any more than I have to. If I keep it covered … hells, careful, wench!”

Brienne paused, using a fingernail to carefully release a stuck-on seam.

“If I keep it covered,” he continued, “I can live in the lovely land of denial where I have two operational hands, and all is right with the world.”

“But you don’t want infection,” Brienne chided, pulling gingerly. “You want to keep the fingers you have left, don’t you?”

“Would it really matter at this point?” Jaime sighed pitifully. He glanced down at his half-covered hand and shuttered.

“Yes, of course it would,” Brienne replied. “And once this heals and you start physio, you will have two operational hands.”

“Such as they are.”

“Yes, such as they are.”

She finished pulling off the last of the gauze, and Jaime’s hand suddenly felt bare and weightless, as if it might float up and away without the compression of the bandage binding it.

He turned his head swiftly, refusing to look. He could already feel the eggs in his stomach launching a campaign to reverse their forward course and call a retreat. Could feel the hollow absence where his fingers should be. Could feel the jagged wounds weeping sorrowfully for what once had been.

Brienne was silent. She held his injured hand gingerly in her own -- still as a statue. Jaime wanted to tell her to get on with it, but he was afraid to open his mouth and instead concentrated on breathing through his nose and not thinking. If he didn’t look, if he didn’t think of it, he just might be able to get through this without losing even more of himself than he already had.

After what seemed like hours, he felt Brienne’s long fingers unhurriedly trace his palm, or what was left of his palm. He closed his eyes and tried not to vomit.

With careful movements, Brienne’s fingertips skated across his hand, lightly brushing over the stiff, black twine of his stitches, causing him to hiss. “Sorry,” she breathed, but she didn’t stop. Carefully, she caressed his remaining fingers, slowly unfolding them from their tight, curled position, stroking them until the muscles relaxed enough to stay open. She gently moved to his swollen wrist, delicately rotating it, tracing over the bruises and abrasions, her touch feather light. She ran her entire palm over the back of his hand, and Jaime couldn’t stop his sore fingers from pressing up to touch her own. A shiver ran through him at the contact. It suddenly felt much too intimate -- as if he were exposed, pinned helplessly under the weight of this tiny, private moment.

In response to his touch, Brienne wrapped her hand around his fingers, squeezing ever so gently.

He turned to look at her.

“It’s going to be OK, Jaime,” she said, a soft smile on her face.

“OK,” he said weakly, wanting to believe her but still not wanting to see his hand.

“OK,” she affirmed.

She then set about cleaning his wounds, stroking his palm to distract him from the sting of the peroxide, lightly massaging his fingers to help with the stiffness, slathering on the antibacterial ointment. When his wounds were well and truly clean and disinfected, she opened the new packet of sterile gauze. “Ready for me to wrap you up again?”

Jaime swallowed. “Yes, please. The less I have to look at it the better.”

Brienne looked at him strangely. And then, before he could stop her or protest, she brought his poor, ugly hand up to her mouth and kissed his palm.

Jaime stared at her in shock.

However, she just smiled, the corner of her mouth shiny with antibacterial ointment. “My dad used to do that. Said it sped up the healing.” She then set about wrapping his hand, pretending not to notice the tears that had suddenly filled his eyes.

......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime couldn’t pinpoint exactly when things had changed. Perhaps it was the night of Brienne’s break-up, when she had held him and praised him, and he had fallen asleep in her arms. Certainly, things had shifted that horrible night in his hospital room when he had confessed his secrets and bared the dark spots on his soul, and she had not bolted for the nearest exit.

He wasn’t even sure what had changed exactly. It wasn’t just the casual touches -- the way his hand seemed to always hover close to her -- his propensity to blush when he felt himself trapped by her proximity. No, as far as he could make out, the change was vibrational -- more like a rearrangement of energy, a shift in atmospheric pressure. The air around them had sharpened in a way Jaime couldn’t quite define. It was strangely uncomfortable. It was as if a wall had been breached between the two of them, and now they were both closer and vastly more distant.

Jaime wasn’t even sure that Brienne realized that anything had, in fact, changed. Oh, she was softer with him, more open with her affection, less cautious with her touch; but that simply could be a side effect of her sympathy for his injury or his break-up or his fucked-up childhood or one of the other million hits he had recently taken. However regardless of whether Brienne was aware of it, something had changed. Jamie was sure of it. And, as he waited once again for Brienne to get home from work, he wondered for the millionth time whether or not this change was a good one.

So damn much had changed in such a short amount of time; Jaime couldn’t quite process it all.

It was difficult enough learning how to navigate the world with his injury. Apart from the physical limitations, Jaime had been forced to come to terms with the fact that he was now, for all intents and purposes, crippled. He was altered -- not the proud, virile lion that he once had been.

Honestly, in the past, Jaime had never really given much thought to his appearance or to the vast power and privilege that came with it. It had always just been a part of him, much like his wealth and family name. He had taken it for granted, all those doors that had immediately opened for him because of his outward beauty. Yet now, because of the accident, those doors were more difficult to open -- both literally and figuratively.

Back in the hospital, Brienne had called it a tiny mar, but in reality, Jaime knew his injury was more than that. He was damaged goods now, no longer the perfect, golden specimen. And where he had rarely thought about his appearance in the past, he now suddenly found himself thinking about it constantly.

The mangled hand was hideous. He couldn’t stand to look at the thing -- tried to keep it covered and out of sight, training his left hand to take over the duties of the right. Yet even submerged in this haze of denial, Jaime couldn’t keep from wondering what Cersei would say when she saw it, how she would react when he touched her. He couldn’t stop himself from envisioning horrifying scenarios of having to use his maimed hand in intimate situations -- the pity, the awkwardness, the disgust that was sure to result.

Brienne, true to form, continued to play the cheerleader. She always played the cheerleader. She kept insisting that Jaime was the same person --was, in fact, still completely whole. But he felt different. He felt disfigured and less than and absurdly pathetic.

In reality, the whole thing seemed like a sick joke played by vindictive gods, and Jaime felt entirely unequipped to handle it. So when added to everything else, this new dynamic with Brienne wasn’t exactly a welcome development. It was yet another change. And Jaime wasn’t at all sure that he could weather yet another change.

He would never admit it, but sometimes late at night, lost in a haze of anxiety and self-loathing, Jaime ached -- literally ached -- for the halcyon days of easy comfort and camaraderie he and Brienne had once shared. The days of Tormund and Cersei. The days before all of these horrible feelings of heartbreak and loss and pain -- when Brienne didn’t know the shameful parts of him -- when his hand had been whole, and their interactions didn’t feel leaden with meaning. He wondered if they could ever get that back, that easiness. Was it retrievable or was it lost for good, like his fingers were?

The sound of keys in the lock shook Jaime from his heavy thoughts. She was home. It was usually the best part of his day, but lately Jaime had greeted it with both relief and dread. He felt his stomach swirl and wondered if he had taken too many pain pills again.

Brienne stumbled in, her face drawn and weary, her arms loaded with files and papers. She glanced over at him and gave him a tired smile.

Jaime stood up quickly, his cheeks reddening. “Hey,” he said, his voice overly loud to cover his fluster. “You’re home late. How was your day?”

Brienne dropped her papers and briefcase onto the entry table and kicked off her shoes, padding across the floor to throw herself onto the loveseat in a crumpled heap of long limbs. “Crap.” She sighed. “It was a crap day all around. Hours of mind-numbing deposition, a lunch meeting, which, of course, means no sodding lunch at all, and then, to put the proverbial cherry on this shitastic sundae, Judge Tarly denied my request for a postponement on the Kingswood case, so it’s a working evening for me once more.” She groaned. “Remind me again why I do this? I mean the Seven Kingdoms are firmly set on a course towards complete environmental destruction, and no one seems to care, so why am I even bothering?”

Jaime smiled, resuming his seat on the couch, his uneasiness fading away in the face of their normal banter. “It’s your nature, wench. You were born to play the white knight, always riding into battle, no matter the foe -- your sword aflame and your cause ever just.”

She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t know. That sword just may be completely extinguished after the day I’ve had. Truly horrifying.”

“Never,” Jaime grinned. “It’s the flame of righteousness which makes it inextinguishable.”

She waved away his complement. “How was your day, then? Was it a good one?”

“Oh, you know -- watched too much television, slept a lot, felt sorry for myself -- basically what amounts to a typical Thursday these days.”

“When are you planning to go back to work? You’re doing so much better, Jaime. Aren’t you going crazy trapped in here all day?”

“Father wants me to take the rest of the month. He wants me to make sure I’m fully recovered -- although, I have a strange feeling that he just doesn’t want to see the hand. He doesn’t quite know what to do with me, how to treat me now that I’m crippled.” Jaime gave her a self-deprecating smile.

“You’re hardly crippled,” Brienne protested.

“Damaged then?” Jaime frowned. “I think he’s trying to decide how to handle me. He doesn’t have a good track record with dealing with physical impairments, just ask Tyrion.”

“Well, our sensitive, little Tywin will just have to learn now, won’t he? He’s a grown ass man and the head of a sodding corporation to boot. Surely he can call HR for some tips, if he’s truly that daft.”

“See,” Jaime grinned. “Like I said, always the white knight protecting the poor and innocent from evil.”

Brienne laughed. “It’s cute that you think that you’re innocent.”

Jaime smirked. “Poor then?”

“Ha! Not bloody likely, Lannister.”

Jaime grinned again, leaning back on the cushions. “So it was a truly terrible day, then, huh? No redeeming features?”

“Well, if I get through tonight and resist the urge to throw everything away and live out my remaining days on the Quiet Isle, Margaery is dead set on taking me out on the town tomorrow.” Brienne gave a sardonic smile, rolling her eyes fondly. “She says it’s high time for me to cast off my widow’s weeds and put myself back into rotation, whatever the hells that means.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Ah, a girls’ night is it?”

“More than that,” Brienne replied. “She’s setting me up with a friend of Loras’ -- one of his mates from his time on the Rainbow Guard.” Brienne bit her lip, her tone suddenly unsure. “Apparently he’s an expert in medieval weaponry, loves swords and sword fighting, and has a penchant for tall, leggy blondes -- although when he sees how tall and leggy I actually am, he may reconsider that particular penchant.”

Jaime choked on his tongue, his face turning red, as he tried to compose himself. “A date? Are you sure you’re ready to get back out there? It hasn’t been that long since Tormund.”

“I know,” Brienne agreed. “And I hate the thought of it, but Margaery’s right -- it would be good for me to have something besides work to think about.”

“But you have other things to think about,” Jaime sputtered, suddenly irrationally aggravated at Margaery Tyrell. “You have your running and your friends and your ... well, your smoothie making -- and you’re helping me quite a lot.”

Brienne laughed. “Gods, you make me sound so pathetic, Jaime. Smoothie making? It’s no wonder I have to resort to ridiculous set-ups.”

“You know what I mean, wench,” Jaime replied testily. “Surely you don’t need a man to feel fulfilled.”

“Oh, and when did you become such a mouthpiece for feminist rhetoric?” Brienne’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. She shook her head. “Jaime, you and I both know I have never in my life needed a man. And who knows if I will even hit it off with this bloke. But Margaery is insistent, and it’s been a rough couple of months, and it will be nice to simply have an evening out, even if nothing comes of it.” She hauled herself off of the loveseat with a groan to head to the kitchen. “You know, you could benefit from getting out a bit too. I worry about you cooped up in here with nothing but daytime telly to keep you company.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime said, still disgruntled with Margaery sodding Tyrell for pushing Brienne into dating again. She was always pushing Brienne. Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone. Brienne had plenty on her plate. She was still dealing with the loss of Tormund, for gods sake. The whole idea was just premature and ridiculous. The Rainbow Guard? Hells, everyone knew that those guys were all a bunch of conceited, pretty boy wankers. What was Margaery even thinking?

Brienne came back from her perusal of the refrigerator. “Hey, what do you say we get takeaway tonight? I don’t feel like cooking.”

“Fine,” Jaime grumbled.

“Oooh, what about that new Pentoshi place that just opened up? Pod raves about it.”

“I don’t think they deliver,” Jaime said distractedly. Maybe he should text Margaery. Let her know to back the hells off. Tell her to stop pushing Brienne before she was ready. The whole thing could completely blow up, and that’s not what Brienne needed at the moment -- not with her poor, broken heart.

“I don’t mind going and picking it up,” Brienne offered. “Let me just change.” She pulled off her suit jacket, throwing it on the loveseat and started unbuttoning the top buttons of her blouse. When Jaime didn’t answer, she tried again. “Isn’t that _Age of Heroes_ movie on tonight? Let’s get some good food, open that bottle of red that Renly and Loras brought last time they were over, and treat ourselves to a movie night.” She looked at Jaime, her eyes suddenly much brighter than they had been when she had first arrived.

“I thought you had to work?” Jaime groused, not at all mollified by the thought of food and wine.

“I’ll just do it in front of the movie. I’m an excellent multitasker. It’s how I got through law school.” Brienne walked over and perched on the arm of the couch, reaching over to muss Jaime’s hair. “Come on, Lannister. It’ll be fun. Let’s have a nice night. We both could use it. What do you say?”

Jamie gave her a tight smile. “Right. Sounds good.”

“Awesome. I’ll just change, while you go online and look at a menu.”

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Jaime was still cursing the name of Margaery Tyrell, long after Brienne had left to go pick up the food. Just because Margaery always had to have a love affair, didn’t mean everyone else did. Look at him, for Seven’s sake. He’d been without Cersei for months now, and he was fine. Just fine. Brilliant, actually! Except for the damn hand. And for the fact that he missed his house and all of his stuff. And, if he were being honest, he missed Cersei a fair bit. Well, more than a fair bit. Gods, he just really missed having someone -- someone in his life -- someone in his arms -- someone in his bed. But he was fine, damn it. Just fucking fine! Honestly, he should just text Margaery right now. Tell her what she could do with this whole blind date/Rainbow Guard/ get Brienne back into rotation plan. Sodding Tyrells! They were always stirring shit up.

However, before Jaime could awkwardly retrieve Margaery’s contact information left-handed, his phone rang, Tyrion’s face popping up on his screen.

“Tyrion.”

“Jaime!” Tyrion sounded sloshed, his voice loud and insistent.

“Listen, Tyrion, I can’t really talk right now. I need to call Margaery Tyrell before Brienne gets back. I need …”

“Brother,” Tyrion interrupted. “That’s going to have to wait. I have to tell you something.” Tyrion broke off then, the line going strangely silent.

“Tyrion?” Jaime said impatiently. He heard the sound of a bottle thumping against a hard surface. “Tyrion, are you drunk?”

“Yes!” Tyrion cried. “Very drunk! But that’s irrelevant. I still need to tell you something.”

“Well, get on with it then. I don’t have long until Brienne comes back, and I want…”

“Jaime, shut up a minute, will you, and let me just get this out.”

Jaime stopped at that. Tyrion was very rarely tongue tied. Where Jaime had been blessed with golden looks, Tyrion had been blessed with a golden tongue. If he were having trouble finding words, things must truly be dire. “Tyrion? Is everything OK? Is it Father?”

“Jaime... Shit, I don’t know how…” Tyrion sighed heavily. “Jaime, Cersei’s getting married. Soon ...next month, in fact.”

“What?” Jaime suddenly felt numb, as if all of his faculties had shut down simultaneously, leaving him dull and stupid.

“She and Robert are getting married. The announcement is coming out tomorrow in the society papers. I thought… gods, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Married? But …” What was he trying to say? He couldn’t think right now. Cersei married? Surely not. Robert was just a fling. Just one of her many, many flings. She was never serious about any of them. Never! No, Tyrion must have gotten this whole thing wrong. Marriage to Robert Baratheon? Hah! Cersei hated the idea of settling down. She had said as much to Jaime a million times. She wanted to experience life and all that it had to offer first. Marriage was for the future. Marriage was for when they were a little more settled. When they both were ready.

“I’m afraid it gets worse, brother,” Tyrion said, his voice thick and stumbling. “She’s pregnant.”

Jaime felt the world slowly sink away.

Pregnant? Immediately his mind went back to all of their whispered conversations, flushed in the afterglow, when Cersei would lazily beguile him with tales of the future -- of being married and having lovely blonde children with lovely green eyes. He felt his heart lurch painfully and swallowed it down.

“It’s early days yet,” Tyrion continued carefully. “She’s not announcing it. However, that’s why the wedding is so rushed.”

“How …” Jamie tried, his voice raw. “How did you find out?”

Tyrion was silent.

“Tyrion?”

“Ah, Jaime,” Tyrion replied sadly. “She told me.”

“She what?”

“It was at that dinner at the Freys -- Walder’s 95th, if you can believe it. After your accident, Father asked me to fill in. I didn’t know she’d be there, but of course, I didn’t think of Robert and all of his political connections.”

Jaime winced, the mention of Robert’s name like a blow across the face.

“Cersei made it a point to seek me out. Made it a point to ask about you. For one small moment I thought she was actually displaying human emotion, thought she was concerned about your recovery. However, she really just wanted to gloat -- to compare the two of you -- compare how far she’s risen and how far you’ve …”

“Fallen,” Jaime whispered.

“I’m so sorry, Jaime.” Tyrion cleared his throat. “She told me about the pregnancy. Told me she was certain it was a son because all she craved was red meat. Told me that her family was over the moon -- that she thought motherhood would be her true calling. Then she had the audacity to ask me to give you her best, as if her best was anything you would want.”

Jaime opened his mouth to reply, but the words stuck in his throat.

“I know she meant to wound you, Jaime, by telling me,” Tyrion continued. “But really, I think she did you a service in the end.”

“How so?” Jaime croaked.

“Isn’t it better to hear it from me than it would be from a tabloid?”

“Yes, of course,” Jaime said, his mind racing. Was it better? He couldn’t imagine any scenario in which he would have been ready to hear the news. His thoughts were reeling. He felt the adrenaline sickly swirling in his gut.

“Is Brienne there?” Tyrion asked worriedly, after too much silence had passed.

“She went to pick up food. We’re meant to watch …” Jaime trailed off. “It doesn’t matter.” His voice was choked. “She’ll be home soon.”

“Good,” Tyrion said. “I’d come over myself, but I’ve been drinking. Rather a lot, actually. I’ve been dreading having to tell you. Liquid courage and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said tiredly.

“Don’t you dare apologise, Jaime!” Tyrion cried, suddenly angry. “Don’t you dare!” Jaime heard him take a swing of something on the other end of the line.

“Look, I can’t begin to understand the strange pull Cersei has over you, Jaime. Can’t begin to understand how she’s convinced you that you are somehow unworthy of her or that she is actually anything anyone should strive to be worthy of. I know that she’s convinced you that you won’t have any type of life without her. But, Jaime, believe me, you will. You will! You’re better off. Robert is the one you should feel sorry for. Robert’s tied to her for life now, poor bastard. You’ve escaped.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, you have!”

Jaime looked down at his mangled hand, the empty space where the fingers should be. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Gods, brother, I know you can’t see it. Of course, you can’t see it. But trust me on this.”

The door suddenly pushed open, and Brienne came in, holding two, giant, takeaway bags aloft in victory. She took one look at Jaime’s face and came to a stand still.

“Jaime?” Tyrion was practically shouting, the alcohol making his words shapeless and muddy.

“Brienne’s back,” Jaime murmured, his voice a whisper. “She’s brought food.”

“Jaime, give the phone to Brienne.”

Jaime meekly handed his phone to Brienne who set down the bags, looking at him puzzled.

“Hello?”

She listened as Tyrion talked, color slowly infusing her face. “Shit,” was all she said, lowly, half under her breath. She glanced up at Jaime concerned. “Yes, yes, of course. No, Tyrion. I don’t think that’s necessary. All right.”

Dazed and sick to his stomach, Jaime left the room, wandering back to his bedroom -- well, to Brienne’s guestroom.

How the hells did he get here?

In the short span of a few months he had lost everything -- his soulmate, his home, his future, half his fucking hand, and now his future children. He collapsed back onto his bed (Brienne’s bed) and closed his eyes, willing his brain to think of something else, anything else except the fact that his life had turned into a total and complete shit show.

He didn’t hear her come in but felt the mattress dip with her weight. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

He didn’t open his eyes. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he said quietly. This is where she would echo Tyrion. Tell him that Cersei never deserved him - that he was so much better off without her -- that he had dodged a bullet. Instead Brienne reached a hand across his chest, placing it over his heart and pressing down, a steady weight anchoring him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He rolled into her, burying his face in her hair, his head spinning.

In response, Brienne turned her body, embracing him tightly -- her hand rubbing careful circles on his back, while the silence settled over them like a heavy blanket.

In her embrace, Jaime worked to still his mind. He concentrated on breathing in and out slowly, counting his breaths, trying to focus on the press of Brienne’s hands instead of on Tyrion’s phone call, on Cersei’s engagement, on the future Baratheon who was sure to have Robert’s dark coloring and Cersei’s eyes. Was this grief -- this strange, suffocating wave that was rising through his gut and up into his throat? No, no, best not to think of it. Best not to think of Cersei choosing someone else with whom to spend her life. Someone else with whom to start a family. Someone decidedly not him.

“Brienne…?” he croaked, the breath from his mouth becoming trapped on her neck -- in the white blonde strands of her hair.

“Hmm….”

“Do you think you could tell me all the reasons I’m lovely again?”

She tightened her arms around him. “You know, I was just thinking exactly that,” she said quietly.

................................................................................................................................................................................................................

He wasn’t sure what had happened.

They had fallen asleep on his bed, both fully clothed. Brienne had been a true pillar of strength: holding him, comforting him, telling him how wonderful he was -- her voice a somnolent murmur until, distracted, Jaime had finally drifted off to sleep. However, none of that explained the position in which he currently found himself.

Brienne was curled on her side, dead asleep and breathing softly. That wasn’t the problem. No, the current problem seemed to be all on Jaime. He didn’t know what had caused him to suddenly awaken in the middle of the night, but when he did, Jaime found himself snuggled into Brienne’s back, his good hand under her shirt, cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her bra.

Seven. Bloody. Hells.

He inhaled raggedly, barely daring to move. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He should remove his hand immediately. However, his hazy brain wasn’t working right, and he didn’t want to do anything to startle her awake. He just needed to think. Think godsdamn it!

Panicking a bit, Jaime shifted his hips slightly. It was only then that he realized that he had a raging erection that was currently pressed tightly into the small of Brienne’s back. He closed his eyes in shame. Gods, could this night get any worse? What the fuck was he doing? Was this because of Cersei? Was his body unconsciously seeking Brienne as a substitute for the woman with whom he had thought to spend the rest of his life?

Brienne murmured and turned more into herself, unknowingly pushing her breast further into Jamie’s palm. Jamie felt whatever blood cells still left circulating in his body rush to join their brethren in his nether regions. He stifled a groan. Definitely not Cersei then.

OK, he had to get out of this. This was Brienne. His best mate. His very best mate. His very best mate whom he was currently feeling-up while she was sound asleep in his bed after she had done her best to comfort his sorry ass. And however much in that sleep-laden moment he wanted to press himself further into her, she hadn’t asked for this -- hadn’t asked to be manhandled.

He steadied his breathing, shifting his hips back infinitesimally bit by bit so as not to disturb her. Once his groin was no longer in contact with her back, Jaime set about liberating his hand. He relaxed his fingers slowly, releasing Brienne’s breast from his grip, praying she wouldn’t wake or worse, roll forward and trap him. He then began methodically pulling his hand out of her shirt, freezing when his palm accidentally brushed lightly over her nipple. Fuck! Luckily, she was dead to the world and only gave out a soft snore. He sucked in a breath and slowly, ever so slowly, withdrew his hand, untangling it from her rucked-up shirt before carefully rolling back onto his side of the bed.

What in all fucking hells was going on? He was sad about Cersei. She was getting married, having a child with another man. Jaime was devastated. Wasn’t he? He looked down at his traitorous body and then over at Brienne. Her shirt was still rucked-up and in the faint light, he was able to make out the lower part of her back, the gentle dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the urge to run his hand down her spine, feel each vertebrae give way under his touch. He felt his heart rate increase. What if he reached over and placed the softest of kisses on the valley between her waist and her hip. Surely she wouldn’t wake, would she?

Gods, Lannister! Get a hold of yourself! It’s fucking Brienne, for fuck’s sake. It’s Cersei you’re missing. Cersei you’re pining over. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Cersei. Cersei naked in bed, arms out to him, begging him to take her back. And yet, just when he solidified the image, his stupid brain shifted back to Brienne’s back -- to the smooth swath of skin and muscle revealed by her twisted-up shirt. He could almost taste it.

Damn, this was confusing! He didn’t want to fuck Brienne, did he? Surely not. It was Brienne. However, his body certainly had ideas. Maybe he just wanted a rebound -- to show Cersei he could move on like she had. Of course, that was it! That had to be it!

No, no, that most definitely wasn’t it. He wasn’t the casual sex type. Besides, there was nothing casual about his relationship with Brienne. She was his mate. His bloody best mate. So then why was he lying in bed with a raging hard-on trying to talk himself out of waking up his best mate to see if she’d be amenable to a quick roll in the sheets? Although it didn’t have to be quick. He could take his time with her. Start with her mouth and work his way down slowly, bit by freckled bit.

Shit.

Jaime huffed out an exasperated breath, gingerly hauling himself up and padding across the floor, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard by the dresser so as not to disturb Brienne. There was nothing else he could do. He would have to go and sleep in Brienne’s empty bed where there were fewer ... distractions.

Stupid Brienne.

Stupid Brienne and her stupid, lovely back lying in his stupid bed and making him feel all sorts of stupid things. He shook his head in frustration. Gods, this whole thing was completely… well, stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks for your support. Your comments and kudos keep me from chucking this whole thing and running off to live out my remaining days on the Quiet Isle. You're aces!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime struggles to understand feelings. Brienne struggles to understand feelings. Feelings roll their eyes and darkly mutter, “Fuck’s sake. We’re not that difficult to understand. You two are bloody idiots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord -- what an insane couple of weeks. So sorry this is late. Thanks for sticking with me. As always, I appreciate all your support.

...................................................................................................................................................................................................  
**You’ve got something I need**  
** In this world full of people, there’s one killing me**

**One Republic, "Something I Need"**

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Brienne turned up the volume on her headphones and increased her speed, unconsciously regulating her breathing to match her pace. Her feet pounded on the pavement, her stride fluid and powerful. She felt a sheen of sweat envelop her face and chest, cooling her as the early morning breeze blew past, ruffling the pale strands of her hair. She loved this time of day when the streets of King’s Landing were eerily vacant, when the light was just a hazy promise on the horizon. It was in these moments that the ticker tape of doubts and worries that so consumed her mind finally ceased its endless scrolling and, on instinct, her body took over.

As she ran, Brienne became keenly aware of the pull and flex of muscle and sinew -- of the cold breath filling her lungs and the steady pumping of her heart. Slowly, she felt the tight, bunched cords in her neck relax, as her worries and frustrations began to ebb away with every new stretch of pavement conquered.

Despite the intellectual challenge of her job, at her core, Brienne was a physical being; and running was her truest form of expression. It was the closest thing to prayer that she practiced. It was what kept her sane in the chaos of her daily life. Only lately, despite the exertion, despite the stinging burn of her muscles, despite the jarring, thrash-metal, Dothraki music pulsing through her headphones, Brienne couldn’t quite quell the niggling worry over Jaime. Something was very off.

After Tyrion’s phone call, Brienne had braced herself for another of Jaime’s depressive spirals. He was still very much recovering from the trauma of the accident; and even though he had separated from Cersei months ago, Brienne knew that, in his heart of hearts, Jaime didn’t truly believe that the separation would prove to be permanent. Thus, Brienne was fully prepared for depressed Jaime, for despondent Jaime -- ready for his black moods and bouts of self-loathing. However, what she got was something entirely different. If she hadn’t known better, Brienne would have sworn that Jaime was on some sort of illegal drug. Far from maudlin and morose, Jaime was jumpy and anxious and distracted beyond all measure. He couldn’t sit still, absolutely consumed with a manic energy Brienne had never in her life witnessed. He wouldn’t talk to her for more than a few minutes at a time, and he avoided her as much as humanly possible, barricading himself in his room at all hours of the day. Gone were all their late-night tête-a-têtes, their fraught confessions, the movie nights and casual dinners. And in their place, looming over every interaction, was this uncomfortable, reverberating restlessness.

It was jarring, to say the least -- especially given that things had been so ..._ good_ before.

Ever since the accident, things with Jaime had been --- well, not easy (Jaime was never easy) -- but steadier, more sincere, more significant. Jaime’s confession, the fact that he had trusted Brienne with his darkest secret, had seemed to open up a whole new avenue in their relationship. It had certainly lifted a tangible burden from Jaime. But more than that, Jaime’s vulnerability had seemed to soothe something in Brienne as well. It had chipped away a little of the great, protective wall that she had so carefully erected around herself and rarely let people breach. Oh, she and Jaime had been close before -- of course they had; they were best mates, after all. However after the accident, they were somehow ... closer. It suddenly seemed strange to be away from each other -- to not touch each other with affection -- to not think of each other first when something notable happened.

Initially this new development had scared the seven hells out of Brienne. The only thing she could compare it to were those bizarre friendships one often had in secondary school, so fraught with emotion -- burning too quickly to truly sustain but powerful in their brilliant, ephemeral blaze. Somehow her friendship with Jaime had taken on this same bright intensity. And the whole thing was rather a lot to take.

Although she had an immensely big heart, Brienne Tarth loved cautiously. She had always loved cautiously. Years of experience had trained her to carefully guard her emotions. She cultivated friendships mindfully, sowing and tilling and culling the harvest when she deemed it necessary. It had taken her literal ages to allow Tormund fully in, to allow herself to become completely attached. And look where that had gotten her. However despite her hard-learned lessons, after Jaime’s accident, Brienne found herself becoming totally and completely attached to him, even more so than she had been before. She was hesitant to acknowledge it, but her friendship with Jaime was rapidly becoming the most important part of her life.

It was strange, if she truly let herself contemplate it. Adult friendships were rarely that intense. And yet the odd, frenzied energy between the two of them seemed to be steadily increasing. Well, it had been steadily increasing. Now Jaime put all of his odd, frenzied energy into avoiding Brienne. And she, in turn, couldn’t help feeling sad -- and rejected -- and a bit heartbroken.

She knew it wasn’t her -- knew that his pulling away was directly linked to Cersei and to Jaime’s own poor, broken heart. Brienne had tried to comfort him, tried to talk to him a number of times. However, he had refused to let her near him, skittering away at any hint of affection, taking solace with Tyrion or skulking anxiously in his room until she went to sleep or left for work.

And Brienne really tried -- tried not to take personally -- the fact that Jaime lurked around corners in hopes of avoiding her, the fact that he could not meet her eye or sustain any type of conversation. She kept telling herself that Jaime was nothing if not prone to odd moods -- predictable in the fact that he was completely and utterly unpredictable. Kept telling herself that it would pass soon, and he would be back to the Jaime of old. However, after days and days of cold, skittish behavior, Brienne was starting to take it personally. She was starting to take it very personally.

The best she could come up with was that Jaime felt ashamed that he was still mourning Cersei -- thought he was being pathetic for missing her and for crying on Brienne’s shoulder. Hells, Brienne couldn’t pretend to understand his blind devotion to someone who couldn’t give a toss about him, but she completely understood the unpredictable and all-consuming nature of grief. And really, Jaime had cried on her shoulder many, many times before. So why was this time so different? Why was Jaime so distant? He wouldn’t even speak to her more than what was necessary. Indeed, the only pseudo-conversation that they had shared in days was over the ridiculous “date” Brienne had scheduled with Loras’ friend. The date had ended up being postponed a week when Daario had suddenly been called out of town. Brienne was now set to meet him this coming weekend for dinner at Hot Pie’s, a new, hipster comfort food place that had opened in a gentrified corner of Flea Bottom. Brienne had made some benign reference to the date the other morning, and Jaime had gone completely ballistic. Unprovoked he had launched into a pissy rant about Brienne’s laughable taste in men, bringing up her past, unfortunate crush on Renly and warning her not to travel down the same humiliating road with this new, “sure to be gay” member of the Rainbow Guard. When Brienne had indignantly called him on the hurtfulness of his remark, Jaime had simply glared at her and quickly walked away. They had not spoken since.

Yes, it was getting more and more difficult for Brienne not to take it personally.

The sun finally broke over the horizon, and Brienne slowed her frantic pace, breathing hard.

There was no way around it. She was just going to have to bite the bullet and fix this mess. If their friendship were to sustain, one of them would need to make the move to bridge the gap that was ever widening between them. As insufferable as he was being, Jaime was currently in no position to do it, so it was down to Brienne. It wouldn’t be easy -- not in the least. Especially given her history of shutting down and sealing up at the slightest hint of rejection. However, in order to fix this, she was just going to have to face Jaime’s reticence and rebuffs head-on and parry them with understanding and affection. Easier said than done, but she would do it. Glady. Jaime was worth it. The friendship was worth it. And most of all, she missed the ridiculous prat like all seven hells.

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................

“She’s meeting him tonight. As we speak,” Jaime growled. “She says it’s no big deal, but anything involving Margaery Tyrell is sure to be a big fucking deal.” Jaime was lounging on the settee in Tywin’s solar, a discarded goblet of wine on the table beside him.

Tyrion, his expression bemused, was holding court in an overstuffed armchair, his own goblet receiving a good deal more use than Jaime’s was. Tyrion took a long draught from it. “Hmm…” was all he offered.

Tyrion had been looking forward to a quiet evening in his cups, when Jaime had shown up unannounced, highly agitated, babbling about Brienne and a blind date and the Rainbow Guard and sodding Margaery Tyrell and her sodding pushy plans to get everyone matched-up so they could all live happily ever fucking after. Concerned, Tyrion had abandoned his plans of wine and cinema (the much touted, chillingly surreal _The Girl with the Dragon Kazoo_). Instead he had steered Jaime towards the solar, placing a goblet of wine in his brother’s hand and filling a large cup of his own. He had then settled down in a comfortable chair and had simply let Jaime rant. And rant Jaime did, in a strangely manic stream of fragments and expletives. In fact, it had taken quite some time for Tyrion to gather the gist of the story and the exact nature of Jaime’s ire. But finally, after more than a couple glasses of wine, Tyrion realised with surprise that Jaime was starting to make sense -- “starting” and “wine” being the operative words.

“It’s too soon,” Jaime barreled on, collapsed against a veritable mountain of decorative couch pillows. “She’s still, for all intents and purposes, mourning Tormund. She’s sure to get her heart broken, yet again. Stupid, stubborn wench!”

“Yes, and you told her this, did you?” Tyrion hazarded.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Ah-- of course not. So then what did you say to her?”

“I said -- well, it doesn’t matter what I said,” Jaime sputtered. “The truth is I haven’t had anything resembling a conversation with Brienne in days now.”

“And why is that?” Tyrion mused. He reached over and filled his glass again, working to keep his expression one of subdued patience. When Jaime was wound up, it was best just to let him run his course. It shouldn’t be long now before the lovable idiot wore himself out.

“It’s her life. She can make her own bloody mistakes.”

“Well, that seems a healthy attitude to take. Good for you, brother.”

“Besides, something ... well, something happened last week. And things have been rather awkward since.”

“Something happened? What kind of something? Do tell?” Tyrion queried, his curiosity piqued. Finally, something interesting! Granted, it was no _Girl with the Dragon Kazoo_, but it was a hells of a lot more compelling than the ludicrous Rainbow Guard story that Jaime had been yammering on about for the past hour. What had happened between his brother and his stalwart giantess? Had they finally given in to their amorous affections and become physical? Was that why Jaime was acting like he had been mainlining cocaine?

“That’s not the point, Tyrion. You’re not listening.”

Tyrion exhaled and counted to ten very slowly in his head. “So then what is the point?”

“The point is that Brienne is making a grave mistake.”

“By going out on this date?”

“Yes, of course, Tyrion. Keep up.”

“This date that she is well within her rights to go on because it’s her life, and she can make her own mistakes?”

“Gods, Tyrion! You aren’t grasping the situation.”

“No, brother, I think I finally am grasping the situation,” Tyrion replied, shooting Jaime an annoyed look. He cleared his throat officially. “Brienne is on a date with a former member of the Rainbow Guard who apparently likes them tall and blonde.” At Jaime’s protest, Tyrion held up a hand. “And you, Jaime, are upset. You are very, very upset because you don’t want Brienne dating other people.”

“No! Gods, Tyrion!” Jaime cried indignantly. “I don’t care if she dates!”

“You don’t care?” Tyrion said, exasperation breaking through.

“Hells, why would I care? I mean I was fine with Tormund.”

“Were you though?”

“Yes, of course I was. Well, I mean, I thought she could do better. I like the man, but he was hardly up to her standards. Always telling stories about wrestling animals and drinking tankards of ale or wrestling drunken animals after they’d all shared tankards of ale or some such Wildling nonsense. But, Brienne seemed to like him.” Jaime pursed his lips testily, the fingers of his left hand absently playing with the brocade trim of a couch pillow. “All that doesn’t matter though. He’s back up North where he belongs, and Brienne’s…”

“...on a date with a tall, dishy medieval weaponry expert?” Tyrion quipped meanly. His patience had limits, and he was rapidly approaching them. Taking it a step further, he clapped his hands together excitedly. “Oooh, I wonder if he’ll let her handle his longsword?”

“Shut up, Tyrion,” Jaime growled, turning a vague shade of green.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t. It’s just…”

Tyrion glanced at Jaime, exasperation immediately giving way to compassion at the stricken look on his brother’s face. It wasn’t Jaime’s fault that he was as thick as this delightful Dornish red they were currently imbibing. “It’s just that you’d rather it be you, brother? Is that it? Rather it be your longsword?”

“No!” Jaime cried. “Of course not. I just…” He suddenly fell silent. Maybe it was the wine or the fact that he hadn’t slept in days, but Jaime’s mind unconsciously flashed back to the night Brienne had spent in his bed. A jolt shot through his nervous system, as he suddenly remembered the feeling of being curled into her body, the comfort of her tight embrace, the solid bulk of her -- all warm and steady and grounding and lovely. Unbidden his thoughts hastened to the feel of her, to the soft weight of her breast in his palm, to the length of her back pressed against the very heat of him. Oh, that back -- so pale and strong and graceful in the half light. If only ... Jaime flushed, the blood pounding in his ears, his breath becoming shallow. He looked up at Tyrion, a stunned expression on his face.

“Jaime? Are you all right?” Tyrion asked, watching as Jaime slowly turned as red as the wine in his cup.

“Oh shit.”

“Ah,” Tyrion cried excitedly. “Comprehension finally dawns!”

“Surely not -- gods, I do. I do,” Jaime groaned. “I’d rather it be me.”

Tyrion grinned. “Of course you would, brother. Of course you would!” He rose and clapped Jaime on the shoulder jovially. “Honestly, it’s about damn time you figured it out. Bronn and I have a wager going. He put a fiver on your emotional constipation being chronic and incurable. Where as I, ever the supportive brother, thought that, with the right aperient, you’d finally realize your true feelings for our lovely giant… er Brienne.” He laughed. “I was beginning to lose all hope of ever collecting. Truly, brother, you are the most frustratingly unaware person in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But, she’s Brienne,” Jaime sputtered, his face seemingly frozen in a rictus of shock.

“Yes, and you’re Jaime. And between the two of you, you have literally half the perception and awareness of one normal, functioning human being.”

“Wait -- how did you know? How did you figure it out?”

“That’s what I do, brother! I drink, and I know things!” Tyrion laughed. “Seriously, Jaime, the whole world knows. We’ve just been waiting for you two to catch up. It’s not difficult to grasp. Honestly, you’ve been smitten since the early days. You’ve just been too blind to see it. All your years with Cersei had you convinced that love has to be complicated and painful -- so you didn’t recognise it, when you first started feeling it for Brienne. But we saw it. Hells, even Father saw it. That’s why he was so hard on Brienne in the beginning.”

“Father?”

“Yes, Jaime. He may not have a heart, himself, but Father is very good at reading yours. He’s been worried for years now that you’d run away with your noble heroine to that damn, remote island from which she hails.”

“Shit.” Jaime dropped his head into his hands. “This is not good. Not good at all.”

“Whyever not? You’re single. She’s single. And after everything that has happened with Cersei, I don’t think even Father will stand in your way now. He’d love for you to move on, even if it’s moving on to some backwards island with a giantess.”

“No, no, no,” Jaime moaned. “It can’t happen. It won’t happen. Brienne doesn’t think of me like that.”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

“No, no, Tyrion. She doesn’t.”

Tyrion wagged his eyebrows salaciously. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Jaime blanched. “Gods, what are you suggesting?” He turned to Tyrion, his face panicked. “No. No! Impossible! It’s Brienne, for fuck’s sake. I will not go down that road. I simply won’t.”

“Why not?

“Why not? Are you serious, Tyrion? She’s Brienne. She’s my best friend. Why in gods’ name would I want to saddle her with this?” He gestured to himself with his bad hand, grimacing. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty much a complete and total shitshow at the moment.”

“Brienne doesn’t seem to care.”

“No. I won’t do it. I won’t even consider it.”

“No?” Tyrion mused. “Then what will you do? How will you hide your feelings? Because the way I see it, you either sit her down and admit your feelings for her or you do your best to avoid her for the rest of your life.”

“Avoidance it is then,” Jaime said resignedly, picking up his cup of wine and downing it in a gulp.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Craven git.”

“Drunken asshole.”

“Your wit, as always, astounds, brother.”

Jaime sighed. “No, even if I do like Brienne, it’s certainly just a crush. It’s not serious. She’s Brienne, for Seven’s sake.” He stared off into the distance for a long minute contemplating, his expression bewildered. “No,” he said at long last, seemingly making up his mind. “It’s just a fleeting fancy. It will pass, as long as I don’t pay it any mind.”

“Ah yes, because if there is one thing you’re good at it’s resisting your amorous feelings and not wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

Jaime shot him a venomous look. “Fuck off, Tyrion.”

“Again with the witty comebacks. However do you do it?”

Jaime made a rude gesture in Tyrion’s general direction. “No, no, I just have to play it cool -- detached, neutral, distant -- until things settle down.” He shook his head tiredly. “The whole thing may be a moot point anyway, if she hits it off with this sodding Rainbow Guard git.”

Tyrion sighed a heavy sigh and drank the rest of his wine. “Jaime, I love you, but you are giving poor, thickheaded cousin Cleos a run for his money when it comes to mental acuity. I don’t know when I’ve seen someone more ludicrously out of touch with reality.”

“Your support is truly touching, brother.”

“Fine then,” Tyrion conceded. “Shall we wager on it?”

“On what? On Brienne hooking up with Rainbow Guard git? I don’t think I have the heart to wager on that,” Jaime muttered despondently.

“No, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the Rainbow Guard git. Let’s wager on your plan.” Tyrion rubbed his hands together greedily. “If you are able to stick to your plan of calm detachment and neutrality around Brienne, I will pay you one hundred gold dragons.”

“And if I lose?”

“You have to go to The Rock with father and Aunt Genna for Heritage Day next month. I hear Cleos will be there too. You two should have loads to talk about, the both of you being so fully self-aware.”

Jaime’s mouth opened in protest. “What? No! My injury precludes me from that particular horror show this year. You are asking too much, Tyrion.”

Tyrion grinned evilly. “So then you’re afraid you won’t be able to ignore your … what did you call it? Oh yes, your crush on Brienne?”

“Of course I will,” Jaime sputtered. “I will have no problem sticking to the plan. It’s just a stupid fancy. I wasn’t even aware of it until you pointed it out tonight.”

“Wonderful,” Tyrion said, a very pronounced gleam in his eye. He stuck out his hand to seal the deal. “Then we have a wager.”

“Fine,” Jaime echoed, reaching out to shake on it.

Tyrion once more reached for the wine to refill their glasses. He sloppily filled Jaime’s cup, and raised his own in a toast. “A toast, dear brother -- to calm neutrality!”

Jaime glared at him but raised his glass. “To calm neutrality,” he muttered sourly.

“And, if this calm neutrality nonsense doesn’t work out,” Tyrion quipped, “here’s to having the courage to climb mountains, however ridiculously tall.” He ducked as Jaime threw a decorative pillow at his head.

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................

The date had been fine. Nothing to write home about. Brienne had been fascinated by Daario’s knowledge of medieval weaponry, and at the date’s end, they had gamely exchanged contact information. However, after her blow-up with Jaime, Brienne hadn’t truly been able to let go and enjoy herself. In fact, much to her chagrin, she had ended up calling it an early night -- only to come back home to find the flat empty. Jaime hadn’t shown up until mid-morning the next day, breezing in, no explanation for where he had spent the night, no apology for not calling to let her know his plans. When Brienne had tried to approach him, he had just nodded vaguely at her, avoiding eye contact, and immediately retreated to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He was there now, sitting at the kitchen table, phone in hand, doing his best to ignore her presence.

Damn it! She was going to have to say something. Oh, not about the date -- she wasn’t touching that subject with a barge-pole. However, Brienne had vowed that she would try to make things right with Jaime -- had vowed to meet his cold standoffishness with warmth and affection, and it was time to make good on those vows. Whatever shortcomings she had, Brienne was no coward.

Leaning against the door frame, she studied him carefully. Jaime was staring into his mug of tea, his shoulders slumped and defeated. Poor Jaime. Poor brokenhearted, depressed, Jaime. Poor brokenhearted, depressed Jaime who was rude and obnoxious and insufferable and ridiculous and whom she missed desperately.

_Ah well -- courage, Tarth! No time like the present!_ And before she could think of any other treacly platitudes, she pushed herself off of the door frame and launched her attack.

For his part, Jaime was trying his best to stick to his plan of distant neutrality. He had been completely gobsmacked by the realisation of his feelings for Brienne -- which wasn’t a surprise, really. Jaime had never been good at feelings. And thus he didn’t quite know what to do with said feelings now that he was actually “feeling” them. He had stayed the night at his father’s house, loath to face Brienne. However, now that he was back at her flat, it was killing him not to ask her about her date. That damn date was the only thing, besides his ridiculous feelings, that he had been able to think about all these past hours. It had become an obsession. Luckily, even in his muddled and sleep-deprived state, Jaime had the presence of mind to know that his plan of detached neutrality would be shot to hells if he had to listen to Brienne wax prosaically on the stupid Rainbow Guard git and his useless knowledge of medieval weaponry.

Shit. The whole thing was completely maddening. For all his big talk to Tyrion, Jaime felt incredibly out of his depth. Calm neutrality! Hah! He just wanted to laugh -- or to cry. Yes, definitely to cry. If Brienne would only leave him alone for one blasted minute so he could have a good cry. But she was here in this stupid kitchen, watching him, while he did his best to be calm and neutral and distant and …

A warm press of hands reached around his shoulders and came to rest on his chest. For a fleeting second, Jaime was vaguely aware of the soft tickle of hair against his ear and the wet warmth of breath on his neck. Fuck! He reeled back, his head colliding with a hard surface, the resounding crack reverberating in the quiet kitchen.

“Shit, Jaime! What the hells?”

He spun around to face Brienne, blood pouring from her nose, spilling over her t-shirt and spattering onto the white linoleum.

“Oh gods! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He rose from the table, grabbing her by the shoulders, watching as she brought her hands up to her nose in pain. “You startled me...Brienne, damn. Are you OK?” He looked around for something to stem the blood, grabbing an oven mitt from the counter and pressing it to her face, his bad hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck and firmly hold her in place.

“Ow! Ow! Shit, that hurts!” Brienne cried, reeling back from his hands. She pushed him away. “Not so hard, Jaime. Gods let go!”

“Stay still. I’m trying to stanch the bleeding -- keep pressure on it,” Jaime said desperately, coming at her again, brandishing the gory oven mitt like some deranged baking show contestant.

Blood still streaming from her nose, Brienne ducked out of his reach, retreating back behind the table. Once safely away, she brought her right hand to her face, gingerly probing. “Argh damn, I think it’s broken yet again -- for the third sodding time.” She glanced at Jaime warily, raising her other hand in a gesture of defense, as he moved toward her. “Just put the bloody oven mitt down, Lannister, and go fetch some ice.”

Chastened, Jaime immediately dropped the oven mitt and retreated to the refrigerator, while Brienne, holding her nose and muttering expletives, escaped to the sitting room. She was dizzy from the impact and didn’t trust herself to stay upright -- besides Jaime was acting all sorts of crazy. Best to keep him at arm’s length to avoid further injury.

Left alone in the kitchen, Jaime wrapped a handful of ice in a tea towel and cursed himself for his damned jumpiness. So much for his plan of detached avoidance. He really was shit at this whole “calm neutrality” thing. Although to be fair, Brienne hadn’t been playing by the rules when she put her arms around him like that. No, she hadn’t been playing fairly at all, he thought, remembering the wet heat of her breath against the nape of his neck.

“Jaime, where’s that sodding ice?” Brienne called from the sitting room.

“Coming! Coming!”

She was sitting, her legs bent under her on the couch, one hand holding the corner of her shirt up to her nose to wipe the blood which had finally slowed to a tiny trickle. Jaime gulped, his eyes immediately flashing to her hard, flat abdominal muscles that were suddenly on display for all to see. _Plan, Lannister. Keep to the sodding plan._ He shook his head determinedly, coming to sit by her.

Brienne side-eyed him warily, looking for evidence of the oven mitt, and reached her hand out for the ice. However, Jaime batted her hand away and instead leaned in to tend to her himself, sighing in exasperation when she jolted back.

“Godsdamn it, wench, let me do this before your nose swells to the size of Essos.”

“Fine. Fine,” she conceded. “But gently, Jaime.” She shook her head and groaned at the movement. “Hells, your head is too bloody hard.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jaime quipped, approaching her cautiously with the ice pack. Biting his lip, he gingerly touched the wrapped ice to the bridge of her nose, pulling back a bit when her face contorted in a grimace. He tried again, letting the ice ever so lightly rest against her skin.

She grunted and closed her eyes, slowly breathing in and out.

When she had settled a bit, he reached out with his good hand to smooth away a piece of hair from where it was sticking to the rapidly drying blood on her face. Poor wench. He hadn’t meant to hurt her -- to avoid her, yes -- but not to hurt her. She suddenly looked so fragile sitting there, her face pale, the freckles and blood stains standing out sharply. And looking at her, Jaime found his detached, neutral self suddenly overcome by an overwhelming warmth -- a fondness he couldn’t quite contain.

“You look a right mess,” he whispered tenderly, letting his knuckles graze against Brienne’s cheek softly.

“Yeah, not my fault.”

“Sorry,” he breathed. And he was. He was sorry for causing her pain. However, he couldn’t help the selfish part of him from exalting in the fact that he was currently on the couch inches away from her, his body warm from her proximity.

_Wait. None of that. “Hold it together Lannister,”_ he reminded himself. _“Stick to the plan.”_

“Besides,” Brienne continued, her voice thick. “We can’t all be pretty bleeders.”

“Pretty bleeders?” Jaime huffed out a confused laugh. “Who in seven hells is a pretty bleeder?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, feigning annoyance. “You obviously never saw yourself in hospital. Seriously, Lannister. Pints of blood lost, and you still looking like a supermodel. It’s stupidly unfair to the rest of us mortals.”

Jaime grinned, feeling the damn warmth in his belly intensify -- a tiny spark of hope kindling, despite his careful plan. “Are you calling me pretty, wench?”

“Gods, not this conversation again. I’d rather you just hit me in the face once more, if it means not having to talk about your looks for yet the millionth time.”

He smiled and brushed his fingers over her temple.

Brienne gave a small sigh in response, relaxing under his ministrations, the ice finally starting to take effect. She melted back against the couch, her body going slack.

Jaime took a moment to observe her, observe her large frame which suddenly seemed ridiculously breakable and in need of protection. Once again he was overwhelmed by the urge to care for her -- to soothe her -- to make her warm and happy and at peace.

“Fine,” Jaime said, mirroring her movements and moving slightly closer, focusing on the dark smudges blooming under her eyes. Her incredibly blue eyes. Her incredibly blue eyes that were making him forget his plan entirely. “But fair’s fair, wench. If we can’t discuss my looks, what about your looks then? You know, even with all the blood, your eyes are truly love …”

“Stop,” Brienne said tiredly.

“Wench, I’m being…”

“No, just stop -- please. I am injured and unable to properly defend myself.” Her voice was a weary rasp. “Seriously, Jaime. You can take the piss out of me when I’m no longer seeing stars.”

“I’m not taking…”

“Please.”

“Fine,” Jaime consented begrudgingly. Of course, she wouldn’t take him seriously. Of course she would think he was taking the piss. “I’ll just shut up then, shall I?” he said somewhat testily. Sure, he’d injured her, but she didn’t have to be so damn grumpy about it.

“Lovely,” she sighed. “Do you think you can?” Not waiting for his response, Brienne closed her eyes once more, leaving Jaime to hold her face in his rapidly numbing hand.

Jaime huffed, slightly offended. He should move away -- should hand her the ice pack and move away. Perhaps go clean the blood off of the kitchen floor or put on the kettle or review the finer points of his plan before he completely lost this damn wager and fucked everything up. However instead, Jaime reached a hand out to smooth Brienne’s hair.

She was remarkable -- this incredibly tall, incredibly strong woman who had strode into his life and changed almost everything about it. Gods he felt warm just thinking of it. She was his moral compass, his protector, his champion. Yet, sitting here now, all Jaime wanted to do was to care for her -- to hold her and keep her from harm.

She gave a small groan, as the ice shifted on her face, and Jaime found himself mesmerised.

Her face was ravaged, the skin around her nose puffy and swollen. She was breathing through her mouth, her lips parted slightly. Her normally pale features were almost luminous, the blood on her face creating a complicated pattern against her freckled skin --- a strange geometry that Jaime found both brutal and oddly compelling.

Carefully, he wiped at one of the blood trails, letting the fingers of his good hand follow the red streak down over her jaw and onto the white expanse of her neck. With that slight movement, he heard Brienne’s breathing change. It was faint, subtle-- a tiny hitch. If he weren’t so close, he wouldn’t have noticed at all; but it was clear. He swirled his fingers over her throat, and her breath came quicker, her body reacting to his caress.

Transfixed, Jaime shifted closer - just the smallest of movements, his fingers coming to settle lightly in the hollow of her throat. He watched hypnotised, as a flush of blood starting at her chest rose up her neck and settled on her cheeks, making the patterns of dried blood more difficult to discern. She wouldn’t let him say it -- wouldn’t even consider it -- but in that moment, she was the loveliest thing that he’d seen in a very long time.

Her eyes still closed, Brienne swallowed roughly, the blood under her skin and the blood staining her skin creating a ruddy glow. It was too much.

He swore to Tyrion that he would not risk it, had bet on it, in fact. But in the moment, he couldn’t help himself. Watching her, her hair a mess, her face swollen and bloody, he couldn’t help himself.

Leaning in, he gently brushed his mouth against her open one, tasting the salty sting of blood on his lips and tongue. He felt his heart rate speed up, and his own breath become shallow and shaky, as the warmth sloshing in his belly suddenly flushed up into his chest and over his face.

In response, Brienne went very still, not reacting except to release a tiny puff of air into his open mouth. And then, to his great astonishment, she kissed him back -- her lips soft and pliant for one brief, glorious moment, before her eyes blinked open, and she startled, jerking from him roughly.

“What? … Jaime, what the hell?” She scrambled away from him on the couch and rose to put more distance between them.

“Brienne…” His voice was strained -- like someone else’s voice. He blinked rapidly, trying to see through the thick warmth.

She held her hands out in front of her unsure, an awkward entreaty, her eyes large and panicked.

Jaime felt suddenly dizzy. The warmth in his body was becoming much too hot -- as if he had drunk too much of Tyrion’s wine. He searched for the words to explain, but his brain was too slow.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No.” That was a lie. He had lost his mind. It had disappeared the moment he had heard Brienne’s breathing change, the moment he had traced the trail of blood over her chin and down to her throat.

“Did you perhaps sustain a concussion from our collision and mistake me for Cersei then?”

“No!” Jaime almost shouted. Cersei had nothing to do with this. He didn’t even want to think about bloody Cersei.

“But then you … gods, you did just kiss me, Jaime?” Brienne questioned hoarsely -- her voice incredulous, her face carefully blank.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to.” It was a shit answer, but it was the best he could do when the rational part of his brain seemed to be drowning in this sodding flood of heat.

She blinked, her eyes going wide. “I don’t understand,” she breathed. “Why …” She wouldn’t look at him, averting her gaze to the fabric of the couch, to the coffee table, to anywhere but his face.

“Fuck, Brienne. I think I may fancy you.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think them through.

She looked at him then, black marks already starting to appear under her eyes, dark smudges that only made the blue of her irises more pronounced, those damn trails of blood drying on her face. “What?”

“I … uh … well, I think I may fancy you -- rather a lot actually. Tyrion says …”

“Tyrion?”

“Well, yes. I spoke to him about it, and he says that I’m showing all the signs of fancying you.”

“You spoke to Tyrion? About me?” Brienne’s voice was thick and blunted, a byproduct of her injury and bewilderment.

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I was confused. I didn’t know what to think. I just suddenly seem to have all these feelings, and gods knows I’m not good with feelings, and Tyrion says...”

“Ah Tyrion-- because he’s so good at feelings, yes?”

Jaime trailed off, looking at Brienne warily. “Well, er… he says ...”

“Seriously, Jaime, in terms of being emotionally stunted, Tyrion can give your father a good run for his money.” She looked at Jaime strangely. “He said you fancied me, did he?”

Jaime froze. He couldn’t read her. She was curiously calm. Aside from her initial recoil after he had kissed her, she didn’t look upset -- which was a good sign. Right? She hadn’t run away or laughed in his face. And he would have sworn that she had kissed him back. It had only lasted a second, but she had. That had to be a promising sign. However, she was looking at him oddly, as if she were waiting for him to take it all back.

“Yes. But only after I had come to the conclusion myself.”

“That you fancy me?”

“Yes,” Jaime blushed and felt the heat once again rise to his cheeks. “That I fancy you.”

“And you just suddenly came to this conclusion? After years of being best mates?”

“Well, Tyrion says that I’ve fancied you for a while now and just haven’t realised it,” Jaime tried to explain.

“For a while now?” Brienne was looking at him queerly, an odd light in her eyes. Jaime found himself taking strange comfort in it -- in that tiny light, blinking faintly under all of the layers of disbelief and caution. “But then why act on it now?”

Jaime ran a distracted hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. “I don’t know. I guess I just finally realised. I mean, when I heard about Cersei, I was devastated. I thought any hope of love was over. But then…” He glanced over at Brienne and broke off. Her expression had suddenly closed.

“But then,” he continued, his voice rough with desperation. He was losing her. He could see the spark receding, being swallowed up in the dark of her irises. “I realised that Cersei was gone, but you -- you were there and that perhaps I could be happy with you. I mean, I was happy with you already, but I realised that we could be happy together, you know -- the two of us together. Not alone.”

She looked at him solemnly, taking a few beats to contemplate before answering him, a strange grimness beginning to ossify her features. She gave him a tight smile. “Right,” she said finally. “This explains why you’ve been so off these last couple of days. So jumpy and distracted.”

“Well, yes,” Jaime tried to explain. “I had all of these feelings, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t really want to have them, I just…”

“Right,” she said and nodded. She moved back to the couch, sitting down next to him.

He glanced up at her hopefully.

“Jaime, you’re confused. And Tyrion’s a bloody idiot, but I’ll save that for another time.” She took a deep breath as if marshaling some inner reserve of strength. “You don’t fancy me, Jaime. You’re reeling from the news of Cersei and are desperately wanting comfort. It’s to be expected.”

“No. I don’t think that’s it,” Jaime protested, taking immediate issue with her soft, slightly condescending tone. “I was feeling this way before I found out about Cersei. I was feeling…”

Brienne smiled sadly, moving closer to him on the couch. “Jaime,” she said, as if she were speaking to a spooked animal or a very young child. “Listen, there’s nothing wrong with wanting comfort -- with wanting a rebound. It’s completely normal. And honestly, after all your years spent with Cersei, it would probably be good for you to put yourself out there.”

“I don’t want to put myself out there, Brienne,” Jaime replied testily. “And, really, if I wanted a godsdamn rebound, I wouldn’t have to resort to my sodding roommate. I wouldn’t have any trouble finding a willing woman.”

“Yes, I’m well aware that you wouldn’t have to ‘resort’ to me.” Brienne’s tone was suddenly cold, the hurt registering on her face. “But, I’m safe. I’m here. Aside from Cersei, I’m really the only woman who is a regular feature in your life. Let’s face it, Jaime, I’m the sure bet, as rebounds go.”

“You’re not listening, wench. I don’t want a fucking rebound!” He tried to keep his voice even, but she was being so damned patronising.

“Fine then,” Brienne said, her voice hardening in response to his anger. “Shall we just chalk this whole nonsense up to a side effect of the looming concussion you’ve apparently sustained from the collision?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake... No, Brienne. Would you just listen, for once in your damn life!” He let out a sigh of exasperation, rising from the couch to pace in front of her. “Look. I wasn’t even going to bring this up. I knew you’d be a stubborn cow about the whole thing, but I ... it’s too late now.” He took a deep breath. “I think I like you, Brienne. Like you, like you. I can’t stop thinking about you and wanting to see you and feeling overcome with all these sodding emotions all the damn time. And I promised myself that I wouldn’t act on it. Didn’t want to act on it. Vowed to Tyrion that I wouldn’t bloody act on it, if you really want to know the truth. But then you were sitting there all injured and soft, and I just couldn’t help myself.” He stopped pacing, looking at her directly -- an expression of challenge on his face. “I’m not sorry I kissed you, Brienne. I’m not sorry at all. In fact, I think I would very much like to kiss you again, if you have no objections.”

She gaped at him for a long moment, before finally finding her voice. “Seven hells, you’re completely mental, Jaime Lannister.”

“I assure you, I am very much sane.”

She guffawed, shaking her head and running a hand through her wild hair.

“Brienne, I grant you Tyrion may not be the most emotionally sound person in Westeros, but he helped me to understand that I like you. I do like you, as more than a friend. I have feelings for you -- maybe I’ve had feelings for you for a long time and just haven’t realised them.”

She was gazing at him again with that odd, intent look, that strange glimmer still faintly, faintly alight. Maybe all was not lost.

“And when I found out about Cersei,” he barreled on, “I finally understood that my love for her was never going to be viable. I realised ...”

“No,” Brienne said firmly, cutting off his explanation. She looked at him, her eyes suddenly empty.

“No?”

“No,” she repeated.

Jaime felt a flush of annoyance. “You can’t just say no, Brienne. I’m not a child.”

Brienne stood, crossing to him. She took a deep breath. “Look, Jaime. I feel for you. I do.” She paused, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for the right words. “I went through heartbreak just a few months ago. I know how difficult it is. How lonely and soul-crushing it can be. And Cersei -- gods. You’ve been with her since you were thirteen. It must be excruciatingly painful. I understand. I do.” She reached out, taking his good hand in her own.

Jaime looked down at their joined hands and then up to her face. It was tightly shuttered, closed up like a fist. Oh, she was determined. He could read it in the set of her jaw, in the press of her lips. She was fucking determined -- her expression furiously willing him to understand.

“Believe me, Jaime, I would do almost anything for you,” she pleaded, the desperation in her voice a strange contrast to her carefully set features. “But -- I won’t do this. I won’t let myself be used this way. I won’t. So, I’m sorry, but it has to be … no. You’ll thank me for it later. You will, I promise.”

Jaime opened his mouth to protest. How dare she presume to know how he felt -- how he would feel! Thank her for it later! Was she being serious? What a ridiculously pompous thing to say -- stupid, stubborn wench! However, his words died on his lips when he looked into her poor mess of a face so bravely set and resolute, her eyes pleading with him not to push. So, instead of cutting her with a cruel comment, instead of calling her out on her patronising demeanor or her stupid pigheadedness, Jaime found himself reluctantly nodding along in agreement.

At his acknowledgment, Brienne breathed a sigh of relief and nodded back. Their eyes met, and her lips parted. However, her voice caught in the back of her throat, and she stopped herself, rearranging her expression back into one of calm neutrality. Nodding a final time, Brienne squeezed his hand just once, before letting it go. And then, without another word, she retreated to her room, leaving Jaime with a handful of melting ice and a bruised and smarting ego.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tries to keep his oath and stick to his plan. He fails spectacularly. Brienne marshals her defenses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this plotted out to ten chapters, but it seems our two lovely idiots have more issues to work out than I had originally anticipated. So now, to shamelessly misquote Nigel Tufnel of Spinal Tap, “This one goes to eleven.” Hope you enjoy.

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**And if we only live once,**   
** I want to live with you**

  
** One Republic “Something I Need”**  
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“You were wrong, Tyrion.”

Tyrion opened the door, squinting into the harsh sunlight to find his brother glowering darkly on the doorstep.

“Ah, Jaime!” Tyrion cried, slightly taken aback by Jaime’s rumpled presence. “What a pleasant surprise. It seems like just yesterday you were here.” And when Jaime’s response was nothing but an angry glare, “Wait, it was just yesterday. And you’re wearing the same clothes. How charming.”

Jaime huffed out an exasperated breath and, not waiting to be invited inside, pushed past Tyrion into the foyer.

“Yes, do come in,” Tyrion quipped, stepping out of Jaime’s path before he was run over. “It’s quite good timing actually. I was just about to retire to the solar for my afternoon aperitif. And from the looks of you, dear brother, you could use one as well.” He gestured down the hall. “You know the way.”

Jaime set off at a brisk pace, not waiting for Tyrion, who was forced to jog along after him to keep up. Tyrion glanced at Jaime’s rapidly retreating back. Oh, his older brother was well and truly wound up. Things must not have gone well on the calm neutrality front.

Once in the solar, Jaime made an immediate beeline for the wet bar, pouring himself a large goblet of whatever vintage Tyrion had uncorked and had breathing in the decanter. Not pausing to taste it, he downed the cup in a mighty swallow. He then turned to Tyrion who was looking at him bemusedly. “Believe me when I say you were wrong as all fuck.”

“I assume you are speaking of our lovely lady of Tarth?” Tyrion hazarded.

“Got it in one!” Jaime poured himself another large glass and knocked it back.

“Brother, brother,” Tyrion soothed, coming over to Jaime and prying the decanter out of his hand before Jaime could pour another. He deftly steered Jaime towards the settee. “Come now. I’m sure things are not so dire that you have to resort to alcohol poisoning.” He looked at Jaime empathetically. “Seriously, brother. Leave the hard drinking to the experts. Here. Sit. Tell Uncle Tyrion all about it, and let me see if I can help.”

“What’s there to tell,” Jaime mumbled despondently. “I bared my heart to the wench, and she shot me down. Utterly and completely.”

“Did she really?” Tyrion asked surprised. “I honestly can’t imagine her shooting you down. Are you sure she wasn’t just playing the shy and demure maid?”

Jaime snorted. “Fuck no. It was a full on rejection.” He shook his head. “Believe me after years of Cersei, I know rejection when I see it.”

“Hmm….” Tyrion mused. “I must say this is a surprising development. And here I was thinking Brienne was just as besotted as you are.” Tyrion rose and poured himself a glass of wine, coming back to assume what was becoming his usual place in the red velvet armchair. He drank deeply. “There. That’s better. One always thinks more sharply when one’s mind is lubricated.” He turned to Jaime then, his voice brisk. “Right. Now if we are going to get to the bottom of this, I need all the details. Tell me what happened exactly. Don’t leave anything out.”

Jaime sighed and collapsed back against the couch cushions, his empty goblet falling to the floor. “Honestly, I don’t know if I have the energy to relive it.”

“Come now, brother. It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, I assure you,” Jaime replied. “It can, and it is.

“Just tell me what happened. I can’t help, if I don’t know what transpired.”

“Fine.” Jaime shifted on the couch, tapping his foot restlessly against the leg of the settee. “As you know, I had every intention of keeping up my plan of distant neutrality.”

Tyrion’s mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Of course you did, pet. You were quite proud of that ridiculous plan.”

“Fuck off,” Jaime muttered. “It was a good plan, regardless of your opinion. And it would have worked too, if Brienne hadn’t taken me by surprise.”

When Tyrion lifted his eyebrow in a silent question, Jaime elaborated. “I was barely in the door this morning, when the wench ambushed me. She hugged me -- embraced me from behind.”

“She did what?” Tyrion leaned forward, cocking his head in surprise. “I thought you said she rejected you.”

“She did.” Jaime sighed. “That was later, though.” He shook his head, ruefully. “No, I don’t know why she did it, but she hugged me.”

“But that’s … that’s good, isn't it?” Tyrion queried.

“No. No. It isn’t -- it wasn’t.”

“Why?” And then when Jaime looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. “Oh, Jaime. What did you do?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jaime said sulkily.

“What did you do?”

“She startled me. Gave me no warning.”

“Jaime, tell me what you did.”

“I broke her nose,” Jaime muttered, waving his hand as if what he said was inconsequential.

“Ah.” Tyrion bit back a laugh. “Of course you did. Of course you did. I mean, what else could you do given that she hugged you?”

“Shut up,” Jaime muttered. “I didn’t mean to. She just surprised me, and I jerked my head back and … well, I broke her nose.”

Tyrion started laughing, choking on a mouthful of wine.

“It’s not funny,” Jaime said bitterly. “Actually it was awful. Blood everywhere. A complete disaster.”

“Gods be good!” Tyrion howled.

“Stop. You’re not helping. Tyrion? ... Tyrion?” And then when Tyrion wouldn’t stop laughing, “That’s not even the worst part.”

“It’s not?! Oh shit, Jaime. You ridiculous imbecile! How are you like this?” Tyrion gasped, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I swear to the Seven your good looks are a total waste on such a disaster of a person.”

“Fuck off. Do you want to hear this or not?” Jaime glowered at him.

“Yes!” Tyrion cried gleefully, clapping his hands together. “I want to hear everything! Leave nothing out!”

“Well, her nose was bleeding, and she was yelling at me so I went to fetch some ice.” Jaime gestured to the place beside him on the settee. “And then we were sitting on the couch quite close together, and I was holding the ice pack on her face, trying to stick with my plan of detached neutrality.”

“Yes, the plan! Your brilliant plan! Who could forget the plan?” Tyrion giggled.

“Stop,” Jaime bit out. “Anyway, as I watched her, I was suddenly overcome with all of these emotions.”

Tyrion’s giggles became almost manic. “Oh no. You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t, brother!” Tyrion swiped a hand over his streaming eyes. “No, surely not. You didn’t try to make a move? Not when she was injured?”

“No! … well, yes. I mean I kissed her,” Jaime admitted, his voice taking on a petulant tone.

Tyrion stopped laughing, looking at Jaime in awe. “You kissed her? You kissed Brienne? After you broke her nose? Gods, was she still bleeding?”

“Yes, I think so.” Jaime closed his eyes, sighing. “Honestly, I wasn’t really thinking logically at the time.”

“You think?” Tyrion asked shrilly. “Hells, how did she react?”

“Well, the odd thing is that I would have sworn she started to kiss me back; but then she pulled away quite startled and unsure and asked me what I was doing.”

“And did you tell her?”

“I did. And then she rejected me.”

Tyrion looked at him suspiciously. “_What_ exactly did you tell her, brother?”

“I told her that I fancied her,” Jaime explained. “Actually, I told her that, according to you, I had fancied her for a long time.”

Tyrion groaned. “Gods, you told her that it was me who pointed out that you fancied her?”

“Well, yes. You were. It wasn’t a lie.”

“Damn it, Jaime! Sometimes I would swear that you have nothing but sawdust in that pretty head of yours?”

“What’s wrong with telling her that? It’s the truth!” Jaime was indignant.

“Oh yes, I can just see it now: _‘Brienne my little brother says that I fancy you, so what do you say? Shall we give it go?’_ Fuck’s sake, Jaime. No wonder she rejected you.”

“She didn’t reject me just then,” Jaime argued. “She maybe … well, I thought that perhaps she was considering it for a moment -- but then she decided against it.”

“Mother, Maiden, and Crone! Did you at least tell her that you are attracted to her? That you can’t stop thinking of her? That she makes you blissfully and stupidly happy?”

“Yes, yes,” Jaime said impatiently. “Perhaps not in those words, but I told her I had feelings for her. I told her that, after Cersei, I was completely convinced that my shot at love was over. But now there was her and perhaps we ....”

“Stop!” Tyrion cried holding his ears, a pained expression on his face. “I can’t hear any more of this. It’s too painful. Gods! You brought Cersei into this whole mess? Cersei? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“What?” Jaime looked at his brother in disbelief. “I told Brienne that my relationship with Cersei was over -- it was no longer a viable thing -- that I was ready to move on. How is that bad?”

“No longer a viable … ? Argh!” Tyrion cried. “Jaime, you are a literal trainwreck. How you have managed to survive this long is a mystery.”

“And then she said that I didn’t really fancy her and that I was just looking for an easy rebound, and she refused to be used in that way.”

“Good for her,” Tyrion quipped, rising to refill his glass.

“No. Not good for her, Tyrion,” Jaime muttered angrily. “I don’t want a rebound! You know as well as I do that I would sooner cut off my other hand than use Brienne -- hurt Brienne. But she wouldn’t believe me. Told me _no_, as if I were a child. It was humiliating, absolutely humiliating -- being judged that way. She should know me better than that! Honestly, I don’t know what hurts more -- the fact that she rejected me or the fact that she thought I would use her to get over Cersei! Stupid, stubborn wench!”

“Well, what do you expect, brother?” Tyrion argued, his mirth turning to annoyance. “She’s watched you muck around in a dysfunctional relationship with your bloody reflection since time immemorial. Brienne’s only known you to be completely obsessed with Cersei. And she knows that you were devastated by the announcement of Cersei’s marriage and pregnancy. Hells, Brienne was the one who comforted you when I told you the news! And then you go and tell her that you think you fancy her because your brother told you so. You go and tell her that now that there’s no chance with Cersei, maybe you’ll give her a go. Gods, Jaime, of course Brienne thinks you’re trying to make yourself feel better by settling for her.”

“There is no settling! I can’t believe you would think so little of me!”

“Yes, you idiot. Stop your shouting. I know that. It’s Brienne who doesn’t.”

“Well, she should!”

“Because you’ve given her so much cause to think you are over your ex? Because you’ve given her so much cause to think that you are interested in her? She’s been your sodding moral support through your break-up with Cersei -- through every last one of your break-ups with Cersei. Brienne’s heard you promise time and time again that you and Cersei were over, and then, time and time again, she’s watched you run back to bloody Cersei. But now suddenly Brienne’s supposed to think that you are over your ex -- because your little brother thinks you fancy her?”

“Oh gods,” Jaime groaned, realisation finally setting in. “I didn’t mean to. I …” He turned to Tyrion, a stricken look on his face. “Tyrion, I would never use Brienne. Never in a million years. It kills me that she would think that.”

“I know, brother,” Tyrion soothed.

“What do I do?” Jaime let his head fall into his hands.

Tyrion exhaled an exasperated sigh. He steepled his fingers and brought them up to his face in a contemplative pose. “Well, the way I see it, there’s only one thing you can do. You have to convince Brienne that you are serious -- that your feelings are real, and that you are over Cersei once and for all.” When Jaime tried to interject, Tyrion shook his head. “No, no, let me think on this.” He stayed silent for a few, long moments. Finally he spoke.“There’s no way around it, brother, you did some damage -- and not just the breaking of her nose. If Brienne really does have feelings for you, she’s not going to act on them now. You’ve broken her trust; and, if there’s one thing we know about Brienne, it’s that trust is paramount.”

“Oh gods. I’ve royally fucked everything up, haven’t I?”

“You have -- but not beyond all hope.” Tyrion nodded. “ I think the only thing you can do at this moment is to work on winning back her trust. Let her see you moving on from Cersei. Keep being her friend and show her that she can depend on you. And then, once you’ve established a solid foundation, perhaps you can try again to explain your feelings. Only this time, Jaime, you have to keep Cersei out of it.”

“Do you think it will work?” Jaime asked roughly.

“That, my dear brother, will depend entirely on you.”

“Shit.” He shook his head. “But, Tyrion, don’t you think that I should try to explain to her that I didn’t mean what I said? Try to explain my feelings better?”

“I think,” Tyrion said. “I think you’ve wounded her -- unintentionally, but you’ve done it just the same. I think that if you try to take back what you've said now, she’s not going to believe you. What’s more, she’s going to be so uncomfortable around you that you will lose any chance of proving yourself trustworthy. No, no -- just for the moment, I advise you to concentrate on showing Brienne how much you care about her as a friend. Pour all of your feelings into being the best damn friend you can be for a little while, and then go from there.”

“OK,” Jaime nodded. “I guess I can do that.”

Tyrion smiled sadly, trying to lighten the heavy mood. “And it goes without saying, but try not to injure her any more. I get the whole wanting to play the knight in shining armor and come to her rescue, but no fair injuring the maiden yourself.”

“It was an accident!”

“Jaime, Jaime, the shouting.” Tyrion held his ears in mock distress. Gods, his brother was exhausting. Completely and utterly exhausting. Tyrion glanced at Jaime ruefully, taking another sip of wine. It was enough to drive a man to drink. Luckily for Tyrion, the drink was delightful. He really must pick up another case of it next time he was at The Rock. And speaking of The Rock ...

“All right, brother,” Tyrion said, deftly changing topics, “now that we’ve come up with yet another foolproof plan to woo your reluctant maid, can we perhaps turn our attention to the little wager we agreed upon yesterday.” He smirked. “Do you know that Aunt Genna just this morning messaged me her itinerary for the Heritage Day weekend? She’s looking so forward to it. It seems cousin Cleos has managed to procure himself a girlfriend and is bringing her along.”

Jaime groaned. “Way to kick a man when he’s down, Tyrion. You have absolutely no honor.”

“True!” Tyrion cried gleefully. “But I’ll gladly sacrifice honor not to have to make polite dinner conversation with Cleos and this poor woman he’s tricked into dating him.”

“I hate you,” Jaime said darkly.

“Well, at least, I don’t have to fear for my nose then. As I’m sure Brienne can attest, your love seems to be a rather dangerous prospect these days.”

Jaime opened his mouth to retort but found that, after everything, he was too tired for verbal sparring. Instead, he settled for holding up two fingers in a fond salute.

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Although he was shit at following them, Jaime Lannister loved a good plan. It was comforting to have an objective and a set strategy for achieving it. It made him feel more in control, especially now that his emotions were doing their godsdamned best to make him feel like a walking disaster. And thus Jaime threw himself into his new plan with all the blind devotion of a Lord of Light devotee. And not just any, run of the mill Lord of Light devotee. No, Jaime threw himself into his new plan with the sanctimonious doggedness of one of R'hllor chosen acolytes -- the scary ones who went door to door delivering those strange, glossy magazines and trying to convince people to join their flock before it was too late.

The plan’s objective was simple: get back into Brienne’s good graces. The sooner he was back in her good graces, the sooner Jaime could perhaps advance their friendship past the friendship stage -- because, honestly, ever since he had kissed Brienne, Jaime could think of little else.

Brienne utterly consumed his thoughts. Like a lovesick fool, Jaime found himself daydreaming at all hours of the day and night about what it would be like to truly be with Brienne. What it would be like to be able to kiss her -- to touch her whenever he wanted. What it would be like to know -- just to know -- that she was his girlfriend. The whole thing was heady and exciting and overwhelming in the very best way, and Jaime found himself having to work hard to tamp his affections down when he was around Brienne so as not to scare her off. Understandably, things were a bit awkward. Brienne was prickly and reserved and was always watching him with a vigilant eye. However, Jaime refused to lose heart.

Following Tyrion’s advice, he poured all of his efforts into being the best friend he could possible be to Brienne. And little by little, he cajoled her out of her protective shell. He started with small acts of kindness and comradery: cooking for her; caring for her; asking her to join him for post-accident workouts; sharing stories about his day; planning outings with their mutual friends -- anything that would soothe her wounded pride and ease her anxiety. It was slow going at first. However eventually, Jaime noticed that Brienne was loosening a bit around him -- easing the contained rigidity that had marked her demeanor since his poorly timed kiss and confession.

That’s not to say that everything was magically fixed. Brienne was still cautious, and Jaime still caught her staring at him mistrustfully more times than he was entirely comfortable with. However, as the days went by and Brienne’s nose started to heal, things between them eased. It was much more than Jaime had the right to expect and a true sign, Jaime hoped, that his plan was working. Strangely -- or maybe not so strangely -- neither one of them brought up the kiss. It was almost like it had never happened or, if it had happened, it was now forgotten -- although Jaime would sometimes catch Brienne staring at his mouth and frowning, so perhaps it wasn’t completely forgotten after all.

And Jaime thought of it too -- the kiss --- much more than he was inclined to admit. Of course, unlike Brienne, when the thought struck Jaime, there was no frowning on his part. No, when he thought about the kiss it was often late at night or in the shower or when he first woke up in the morning -- and it always, always brought a satisfied smile to his face. It had been a very good kiss. Very good. And Jaime wanted to do it again -- and again -- and again -- and, Gods, he was acting like a ridiculous teenager in the midst of his first crush. It was completely vexing.

Apparently admitting his feelings for Brienne had ignited the vapidly sentimental side of Jaime. Oh, he had always been a romantic. Where Brienne loved cautiously, Jaime loved loudly and recklessly, often to his own detriment. And it was so damned easy loving Brienne. Even when she was distant, she was so good -- so kind -- so sweet and incongruously innocent in her view of the world. In fact, before Jaime knew it, and without much thought or effort on his part, he had gone from fancying Brienne to loving Brienne to admitting (to himself, at least) that he was in love with the wench.

It was sweet torture watching Brienne now, knowing that he was in love with her. But, what could he do besides stick to the plan and hope that everything would work out in the end? He’d made a vow not to pressure Brienne -- not to press the issue. Although more times than not, sitting chastely next to her on the couch trying to maintain a facade of jovial comradery, Jaime wanted to scrap the entire plan and press the issue -- press the issue good and hard.

He was sure Brienne was going to catch on soon. Catch on to how his voice softened every time he spoke to her. Catch on to how he flushed when she shifted too close to him or when their hands accidentally touched. Catch on to how he couldn’t quite keep his eyes off of her -- how he couldn’t quite contain his smile when she was talking. However, aside from the wary looks she shot him from time to time, Brienne seemed completely oblivious to his increasing affection towards her. Which was good, when he considered his long game. It would take all the willpower he could muster to steady on. But steady on he would. Jaime would honor this vow to the bloody end, if it meant having the smallest chance of winning Brienne’s affections.  
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Brienne tore the plastic casing off of the carton of biscuits and arranged them messily on a plate. The kettle was already brewing, as she grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and primed them with tea bags. She went to the refrigerator to retrieve the milk, pulling out last night’s leftover pavlova and removing the clingfilm. It was Saturday night, and Jaime had suggested they watch _A Knight’s Tale_, the newly released film about Ser William Marshal and his escapades with Queen Margaret.

Things were finally, finally starting to get back to normal with Jaime. The whole incident with her nose and the kiss and Jaime’s proposition had thrown Brienne -- truly thrown her. At first, when he had kissed her, Brienne had thought that maybe, just maybe … but, no. No, of course not. He had been smarting from the news of Cersei and had been reaching out for comfort. Any port in a storm would do -- any good sailor would tell you that. And Brienne had simply been the closest port. Initially, she was devastated that Jaime would think to use her in that way. However, when she had time to think back on it, Brienne had remembered how empty and listless and lonely she had felt after Tormund left. Heartbreak did strange things to one’s mind -- made you do strange things -- like kiss your best mate after breaking her nose.

And now it was over, and things could blessedly get back to normal. And they were getting back to normal. Well, except for the fact that Brienne now found herself staring at Jaime much more than what was comfortable. Embarrassingly, she often found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, remembering what his lips felt like on her own -- soft, gentle, warm.

The kettle shrieked its shrill complaint, and Brienne was pulled from her uneasy reverie. She snorted out a half-laugh. The whole thing was ridiculous, really. Jaime was her mate. And she was thrilled -- utterly thrilled -- that things were returning to the status quo. Yes, the sooner things were completely back to normal, the better it would be for all parties involved.

Brienne poured the hot water into the mugs, placing them on the tray with the biscuits, pavlova, milk, and sugar and set off to join Jaime in the sitting room. Nothing like a good, old-fashioned tale of knights and heroic codes to make one forget about an awkward kiss between friends.

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“Is your leg bothering you?” Jaime queried, as Brienne limped into the sitting room, carrying the tray of snacks.

“A bit. I think I strained something at the gym today.” She hobbled over to the coffee table and carefully set the tray down.

Jaime frowned, concerned. “Do you think you should have it looked at?”

“I think it’s OK,” Brienne brushed off his worry. “It’s just a little tight and sore behind my knee and up into my hamstring.”

When Jaime looked at her worriedly, she continued, “It’s fine Jaime. I’ll just rest it a bit and skip the morning run, and I’m sure it will be good as new.”

She handed him his tea and sat back on the couch, resting her foot on the coffee table and elevating her sore leg.

Jaime gave her a reproachful glance, but started the film, grabbing the plate of biscuits and placing it between them on the couch.

Twenty minutes into Ser William’s tournament victories and battles at court, Jaime noticed Brienne shifting uncomfortably, grimacing as she tried to find a comfortable position for her leg. He moved the plate of biscuits to the coffee table.

“Give it here,” he said, holding out his good hand.

Brienne looked at him puzzled.

“It’s obviously bothering you,” he continued, gesturing to her leg. “Let me rub it for you, at the very least.”

“No, no,” Brienne said. “It’s fine. Really.”

“Come now,” Jaime said, smiling disarmingly. “I promise -- nothing improper.” He put his hand over his heart in a courtly gesture. “On my honour.”

Brienne looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Finally, she sighed. “Fine then.” She gave Jaime a tight smile and turned slightly on the couch to rest her foot in his lap.

Trying not to make it a big deal and scare her off, Jaime picked up Brienne’s bare foot, grasping her arch with his good hand and squeezing it. As he pressed up against the sole of her foot, he noted how much darker his own tanned skin looked against the paleness of Brienne’s flesh. She really did have beautiful feet --graceful bones; a high arch; long, gorgeous toes, this time painted a bright Lannister red. He kept his eyes trained on the film, every now and then glancing down at Brienne’s leg. Deftly, his hand drifted up to smooth over her surprisingly delicate ankle, which tapered up to the most magnificent calf that Jaime had ever seen. He dug the pads of his fingers against the hollows on the either side of her ankle and stroked up to her shin, spending a few moments kneading the tense cords on either side of it. He then dragged his hand over the defined muscle of her calf -- long and lean and powerful, the white skin dotted all over with golden freckles.

Brienne sighed contentedly, absorbed by the movie, and Jaime smiled and pressed a tiny bit harder.

On the screen, he watched as Ser William took on a band of vicious knaves to protect his lady fair. As the fight ensued, Jaime was once again struck by the overwhelming urge to protect Brienne -- to prove his love to her. If only they were living in the times of old, and he could go on a quest or vanquish an enemy or fight a bear or something. Yes, a bear -- a big beast of an animal all claws and snapping teeth. He imagined himself swooping in with a sword and saving Brienne from certain death. Of course, he wouldn’t kill the bear or anything. He was very much pro animal rights, and bears were relatively endangered in Westeros, weren’t they? No, Brienne would bloody well murder him if he hurt the damn bear. But he would subdue it -- save the wench all the same -- put his life on the line, and be the hero for once. He would prove to her, once and for all, how much she meant to him, how much he loved her, and then she couldn’t doubt him, doubt his intentions.

Jaime smiled, imagining himself being chivalrous and noble and honorable, and, in his distraction, his hand slipped up to Brienne’s knee, palming it gently. He felt her tense at the movement.

She looked over at him, and Jaime gave her his most reassuring smile. “Relax,” he murmured, pressing his fingers into the muscle behind her knee, the spot that was giving her trouble. He rubbed soft circles over her flesh, smoothing out the tension.

Brienne relaxed and returned her attention to the movie.

Taking that as a sign of her acquiescence, Jaime moved his hand over her knee, allowing his fingers to trace the outlines of the bones and tendons. He kneaded the back of her knee gently, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

“Too much?” he inquired, easing up a bit.

“No. It’s just a little sore,” Brienne said hoarsely. “It feels good. Really good.”

Jaime’s face flushed at her words, but he nodded and continued rubbing the muscle, following it carefully up to her hamstring.

When his fingers touched her sore hamstring, Brienne closed her eyes and let out a soft moan.

Gods be good. Jaime licked his lips in agitation, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He kept his eyes trained on the film, but the plot was suddenly lost to him, his mind and body completely and totally attuned to Brienne.

He should not risk it. He should stop immediately. He was getting very close to invading dangerous territory -- and dangerous territory was not part of the plan. However instead, Jaime moved his hand farther up Brienne’s thigh, watching her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

At his movement, Brienne’s breathing seemed to increase in pace --although whether it was due to the romantic overtures of the film or to his ministrations, Jaime couldn’t quite tell. She was certainly getting flushed, a rosy blush coloring her cheeks, as she stoically kept her eyes trained on the television, where Ser William, blood high from his battle with the knaves, was finally making his move on the beautiful Margaret.

Ser William had just backed his lady up against the stone wall of the castle, when Jaime, his own breath suddenly shallow, slipped his hand up and over Brienne’s knee, brushing the hard planes of her inner thigh. Her skin was softer here, like silk -- a pale expanse of uncharted territory. He watched entranced, as his fingers, dark against Brienne’s white skin, dragged over the unexplored flesh, and Jaime couldn’t help but imagine dragging his mouth over the same smooth trail -- his lip surely catching on the shiny, raised scar that bisected the inside of her inner thigh.

As if she could read his thoughts, Brienne inhaled a shuddering breath, her skin flushed and heated. “Jaime,” she murmured, her voice a heavy rasp, as his fingers slowly crawled ...up.

Jamie dragged his eyes from his hand to her face.

Brienne had pulled her gaze away from the movie and was staring fixedly at his fingers, her eyes heavy and half-lidded.

Time stopped. William’s overly aggressive maneuver had somehow worked on Margaret who was now mewling a soft but enthusiastic consent; however all was lost to Jaime -- their tinny voices receding into a low, steady buzz.

Before he could think it through, Jaime launched himself at Brienne, his upper body crashing heavily onto her chest, as he sought her mouth with his own. The kiss was desperate, greedy, his lips sloppy and off center, but, fuck, it was good. He felt the heat instantly, as his mouth slid into hers, wet and clumsy, the uncomfortable tension in the air growing denser until it seemed to be pressing his body into hers, pinning him to her with its solid bulk. Jaime’s good hand left her thigh and reached up to grasp her jaw and neck. He angled her head, a guttural sound wrenched from the back of his throat, when Brienne’s hips mirrored the movement and shifted their angle as well. Gods!

Brienne pushed him back roughly, and sat up, her chest heaving.

“Brienne…” Jaime croaked, trying to clear his hazy mind and establish his bearings. Shit. What had just happened?

Her eyes wide and pupils blown, Brienne glanced at him and then back at the movie where William, much more successful in his quest than Jaime had proven to be, was ravishing his fair maid, her bodice torn and flapping with their movements. Brienne blinked rapidly, turning once more to look at Jaime in shock and bewilderment. “Promise…?” she said finally, her voice cracking on the rise of the last syllable. “You promised...”

Jaime swallowed roughly. “I’ve never been good with vows -- too many unforeseen complications.” He cleared his throat, trying to rid his voice of the breathy, needy tone he had suddenly developed. “We both know I have shit for honour anyway.”

“No you don’t,” Brienne protested, indignation breaking through her shock. “Don’t say that.”

“Brienne, I …”

“No,” she said, her face starting to take on an expression of panic. “No, Jaime, let’s … don’t ...” she broke off. She turned to the television, blinking again. “Let’s just … let’s just watch the film.” The blush on her cheeks deepened when she realised William now had Margaret against the hard stone wall and was pounding ruthlessly into her.

“I don’t want to watch the damn film,” Jaime replied testily, his calm composure and dedication to his plan both suddenly gone the way of his will power. His body was taut, wound up tightly, as if any minute it would snap and uncoil. He worked desperately to control it. “Look, Brienne, I owe you an apology.”

Brienne’s face reddened even more, turning a mottled scarlet. “It’s fine,” she said, not looking at him. Her jaw clenched, as Margaret let loose a litany of high pitched moans.

“No, it’s not fine. I told you I wouldn’t push, that I would respect your boundaries, and then I go and …” He broke off, a blush of his own coloring his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she croaked. “It … it just happened. It didn’t mean anything.”

“No, of course not,” Jaime spit out, the frustration coursing through his body turning into a hot anger. “Why would it mean anything? I mean I only told you that I fancy you. That I … care about you. Why would me kissing you mean anything?”

She gaped at him silently. “Jaime…”

“No, wench,” Jaime said quickly, trying to repress his anger and compose himself. He took a deep breath to calm down. “Look. I need to apologise -- for more than what just happened.” He shifted closer to where Brienne had retreated against the armrest of the couch and was sitting, her back straight and her muscles tense. At his movement, Brienne stubbornly turned her head back to the film, watching the knight and his lady blithely fucking away.

“Brienne,” he said. He waited until she turned to him. “Back when I broke your nose, when I was trying, very badly, to make my feelings known, I didn’t mean to make it seem like you were second best -- that I want you only because I can’t have Cersei.”

“Jaime,” she said. Her gaze darted towards him, resting on his face for a brief moment before sliding away. “You don’t have to … Let’s just finish the film.”

“No please, Brienne. This has been weighing on me for ages. Please let me try to explain.” She wouldn’t look at him, so he barreled on. “Look, Tyrion says …”

That got her attention finally. She looked at him, disbelief coloring her features. “Tyrion again? Really?”

“Yes, I know,” Jaime huffed, immediately defensive. _Shit -- he wasn’t supposed to mention Tyrion. Damn it -- the plan -- the plan. Hells, he was mucking it all up._ He bit his lip grimly, looking for an explanation that would get him out of this. “I know, I know -- you’re right. I shouldn’t take advice from someone so emotionally inept.” Jaime leaned forward a bit, watching her ease back further into the arm rest. “Only … well, Tyrion may not be the expert in matters of the heart, but I assure you, he knows a hells of a lot more than I do.”

“That’s a truly terrifying thought,” Brienne deadpanned wryly.

Jaime sighed but smiled at her quip. He could fix this. He just needed to make her understand. “OK, fine. I concede -- neither one of us is good at this. We are Tywin’s sons in more ways than one. But Tyrion has had a front row seat to my love life since it began. And he rightly pointed out that my entire idea of love has been shaped by my relationship with Cersei.” Jaime broke off at Brienne’s sharp inhale.

_“Shit, Lannister. No Cersei. No Cersei!” he mentally chastised himself. Ah well, it was too late now. And really how could he explain all this without referring to Cersei? Fuck, he may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb._

Jaime reached out his hand to Brienne in what was meant to be a soothing gesture, but she skittered away, and he withdrew it. “Don’t you see, wench,” he continued. “I only have her for a reference. I’ve been with her since I was thirteen. She’s been my first ... everything. And she’s … well, let’s just say that between my father and Cersei, it’s a wonder that I’m not fucked up beyond all repair.”

He gave Brienne a sad smile. “Look, I was trying to make sense of my feelings for you, and I used her to try to explain, and it was insensitive, and it wrongly made it seem like I wasn’t over her.”

Brienne turned to him, her eyes pleading. “It’s fine, Jaime. I told you then, I understand heartbreak. It’s fine.” She inhaled resolutely and turned her focus back to the film. “It’s difficult to get over someone.”

“No, wench. You’re not hearing me. I am saying very plainly that you’re not my second choice. I didn’t decide I care for you because I couldn’t have Cersei. My feelings for you have nothing to do with Cersei. If Cersei suddenly broke up with Robert and came running back, I still would choose you. I am over her. Completely and totally over her.”

At that Brienne snorted, her interest in the film entirely gone.

“What? I’m being completely serious,” Jaime growled.

“Yes, of course you are.”

“Do you doubt me?” Jaime said, his voice sharp. “Do you think so little of me that you think I would lie to you?”

“Not lie, Jaime,” Brienne explained. “You have good intentions. You’re just oblivious.”

“Oblivious?” The word quietly hung in the air. Jaime looked at her, his gaze dangerous.

“You’re not objective, Jaime,” Brienne explained patiently. “Of course, you don’t think you’d be using me. Of course, you’ve convinced yourself that you are over her. But, believe me, you’re not. Tyrion may have had a front row seat to your love life for more years than I have, but I’ve been here for the last five, and I know of which I speak.”

“Oh,” Jaime spit out, his voice rising in anger. “I didn’t realise that you are the expert here. Of course, you would know my desires -- my heart -- better than I would.” When Brienne tried to reply, he cut her off. “No, no, please tell me what I’m really feeling, Brienne, since you know so much more than I do about my own wants and needs. Thank the Seven I have you interpret my feelings for me, ignorant as I am.”

“Jaime, I’m just saying …”

“Fuck sake, wench. Hear me and hear me now. What I feel for you has nothing -- absolutely nothing to do with Cersei! Argue all you want, but I am over her!”

“Seven hells, Jaime!” Brienne cried, raising her voice to match his volume. “I just held you. I just fucking held you and comforted you because you were devastated -- completely devastated when you found out Cersei was pregnant and getting married. Do you remember how you mourned for her? Do you remember how you cried? That was barely two weeks ago! And then a few days later you were kissing me and telling me you wanted to give it a go with me. Don’t bloody tell me you are over her, Jaime Lannister. I’m not stupid.”

“That was just reflex -- feeling devastated,” Jaime argued desperately. “I’m like Pavlov’s dogs. Every time Cersei rings her bell, I feel miserable and small. I’m conditioned. And part of me had to mourn the life I thought I would have. But that night, as I lay in bed with you, I realised, I don’t want that life anymore. I want you.”

“Oh, I see. It’s me you want now, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Jaime Lannister, you are completely full of shit.”

“Brienne...” he pleaded.

“Do you know how many times you’ve sat on this same couch and told me you were through with her?” Brienne’s color was high, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“Yes, but it’s different this time.”

“Oh it is, is it?” Her cheeks were flushed with anger, and Jaime couldn’t help but notice how impossibly blue it made her eyes.

“Yes, Brienne. If you would just let me…”

“And why is it different this time?”

“It just is,” he muttered sullenly. “Because you …”

“Could it have something to do with the fact that Cersei is engaged and pregnant? That she is no longer an option to go back to.”

“No …”

“You see I find it just a tad suspicious that you are here declaring your feelings for me just a few weeks after you’ve heard the news. In fact I seem to recall you mentioning something about your love for Cersei no longer being a _viable_ option, so _perhaps_ you could be happy with me ...”

“I know, I know. I cocked it all up, Brienne. I fully admit it. But you know I’m not good with words and feelings and all that. Besides, I’ve had time to process this, and what I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve come to realisation that I don’t want her anymore. I don’t. I promise you. I have no interest in Cersei Martell. I want you, Brienne. Even if Cersei were standing here, I would still choose you. I would. I would.” He looked at her, his eyes begging her to believe him.

Brienne shook her head vehemently, the blue of her irises flashing in her flushed face. “Gods, even if I believed you, Jaime. Even if I thought you had truly moved on from Cersei, this would be an incredibly bad idea.” She gestured between them.

“Why?” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Why would this be bad?”

“We are friends, Jaime. We can’t risk it.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

“Risk what? You’re not making sense.” Gods if she would only trust him -- trust that he had her best interests at heart. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. He only wanted to make her happy, blissfully and ridiculously happy.

“Risk losing our friendship.”

“Our friendship?” Jaime questioned. “Wench, I’m not talking about losing our friendship. I’m talking about adding more to it.”

“I don’t want more, Jaime,” she cried, distraught. “More is messy and uncertain and is sure to end in heartbreak. I’ve done the whole love thing -- very, very recently, in fact. And the last thing I want to do is to rush into all of that again.”

“Well, good for you, wench, but I think I already have!” Jaime cried, breathing hard.

Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Brienne stilled, gaping at him.

“Brienne…” he tried. “Look, I know you’re worried but…”

“Don’t do this. Don’t do this,” Brienne groaned, her voice thick and pleading. She ran a hand through her hair tugging at it.

“Brienne.”

“No, Jaime. Don’t do this to me.”

“Would it be better if I didn’t say anything? If I simply repressed all of my feelings and pretended everything was fine?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Brienne cried, her face stricken. “All I know is that you’re not the only one who has had a shit couple of months, Jaime.” She turned sideways on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest in a protective gesture. “Tormund left me and now you’re here telling me that you love me and complicating bloody everything. And this whole thing scares the hells out of me. It scares the bloody hells out of me. Because you’re my best friend, and I don’t want to ever lose you. And what if you are really not over Cersei? Or what if we try this, and it doesn’t work, and we break up and it’s awkward and terrible? Or what if_ your_ father dies and _your_ family needs you, and I have to give you up. Because I don’t think I can do that, Jaime. I don’t think I can give _you_ up.”

“You won’t have to, wench. Have you met Tywin? If he dies, we’re throwing the biggest sodding party in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Stop making jokes, Jaime Lannister!” She cried furiously. You can’t promise me that you won’t change your mind -- you won’t leave. Shit happens. Relationships fail -- all the godsdamn time.” She turned to him, the vulnerability on her face almost too much to bear. “We’re friends, Jaime. Good friends. Best friends. You are the closest person in the world to me. Why would you want to risk that?”

“The truth is, Brienne, I don’t know if I can just be friends with you anymore.”

She gave a strangled cry, rising off of the couch and crossing the room to put more distance between them. “What are you saying, Jaime?” Her voice was high, shrill. “Either I’m with you or you’re out. Is that it? Are you giving me a bloody ultimatum?”

“No, no -- of course not!” Jaime explained desperately. He rose and approached her, holding out his hand when she retreated from him. “Brienne, please, please -- just hear me out. I know I’m not the most insightful person when it comes to my emotions. I understand why you don’t trust me on this. But… look, for years, I’ve been settling for something I thought was love. Only it turned out to be some pale, twisted imitation. Cersei had me believing that love had to be earned, could be taken away at a moment’s notice. But you, without my even realising it, you’ve shown me what it truly looks like to love someone -- to be loved. And Brienne, gods, I’m not giving you an ultimatum. I’m not. I promise. I just want to love you -- any way you’ll have me.”

“This!” she cried desperately, gesturing between the two of them. Somewhere during his explanation she had started to cry, fat tears streaming down her face. “This is how I can have you, Jaime. As mates -- as best mates. I can’t handle anything more. I can’t risk it. Please don’t ask me to.”

Jaime closed his eyes, his body absorbing the hit. That was it then. Tyrion was wrong. Or right. Maybe Brienne did have feelings for him. However, she wasn’t willing to risk their friendship on those feelings. There was nothing more he could do. The plan had failed. Jaime had given it his all, and he had lost.

Neither of them spoke -- the silence between them thick with things unsaid. Jaime looked at Brienne’s tortured face, her eyes wet and miserable, and felt his own tears gathering behind his eyes, clogging his throat. He swallowed to keep them at bay. On screen, a battle raged and a warhorse screamed, and Jaime was brought back to the present moment.

“OK,” he rasped finally. He blinked rapidly trying to keep it together. “OK. If it’s all you can give, I suppose it’s all I can ask.”

“Jaime,” Brienne’s voice broke. “Please, please don’t think …”

“No. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

Only it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t at all fine. And standing there in the sitting room, surrounded by the sounds of clashing steel and battle cries and wounded, dying men, they knew it.

They both knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew … well, that was a beast of a chapter! Fortunately, we are in the homestretch. As always, I so appreciate your support. Thank you for reading; thank you for your kudos; and thank you for your comments. They are my port in this seemingly never ending storm.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime complicates things for the millionth time. Brienne learns that anything involving Jaime Lannister is not easy. Your intrepid author loses her damn mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twelve’s a fine number, right? Meaningful. Full of symbolism. Twelve months of the year, twelve signs of the Zodiac, twelve days of Christmas, twelve major gods of Olympus, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve apostles. It’s quite weighty, if you really think about it. A good chapter number, yes? Not too short, not too long? Some might even say just right? (Crosses proverbial fingers).
> 
> Gah! I am so sorry. It’s getting out of hand, I know. It’s just that there is so damn much to work out, and these blasted characters seem to always want to take the most circuitous route.

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**Repeated One Republic lyrics**  
** Because I have run out of them**  
** Because this story keeps getting longer**  
** And I can’t stop it**

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Brienne knew how to soldier on. She was damn brilliant at soldiering on. If there were an award given for compartmentalising feelings and putting on a veneer of brisk competence, Brienne would win it hands down -- every fucking time. And she’d tried. She’d tried so hard to soldier on and pretend things were normal. But it hadn’t worked. It hadn’t worked at all.

That night in the sitting room, that night when Jaime confessed his feelings for the second disastrous time, had done it. It had established a clear line of demarcation in their relationship. There were now two modes of marking time -- “before the sitting room” and “after the sitting room.” And “after the sitting room” was awful and bleak and jarring and hollow, and Brienne didn’t know how to fix it.

“After the sitting room,” Jaime had completely pulled back, cocooning himself in layers upon layers of polite, protective distance. Brienne could see him doing it -- watched him do it, in fact. It was in his smile, his manner, his tone of voice -- deliberate, detached, removed. She was powerless to stop it. She wanted to yell at him to come back, ruffle his hair and call him an over-dramatic idiot. She wanted to push away the protective film that was blurring him, making his voice sound odd and not at all Jaime. She wanted to reach out to him and grasp him back to her -- to them -- to “before the sitting room.” Only she didn’t trust herself to do it -- afraid that, if she let herself feel, she would trip and send an avalanche of emotions tumbling down the mountainside. So instead, she did what she did best. She soldiered on, taking careful steps -- one foot in front of the other, like walking along a high tension wire with no net underneath.

She was desperate for things to go back to the way they were before -- when they were safe and happy and content. But four days “after the sitting room,” four days of the most dedicated soldiering on that Brienne had ever done in her life, she had come to the abrupt realisation that there was no use in wishing for the impossible. Things had changed. Jaime had changed. And for all of her careful steps, all of her stoic soldiering on, Brienne had changed too. She couldn’t even look at Jaime anymore without being completely overcome with terror … and with a strangely acute tenderness. She wondered if there were a word for this feeling that plagued her every time Jaime was near. There should be one if there weren’t, because it was a very real thing. It was like being constantly in fight or flight mode -- like wearing her heart on the outside of her body, all the tender parts exposed and friable. She hated it. Did anything she could to avoid it -- working long hours at the office, increasing her workouts, trying to burn off the unsettled adrenaline that seemed to be fizzing through her veins at all hours of the day. But it hadn’t worked. It hadn’t worked at all.

In her heart of hearts, Brienne knew that she had made the right decision. She did. Of course, she did. Even if Jaime were serious, even if he were over Cersei and thinking rationally, it was too dangerous. It was too damn dangerous. Why risk all they had on a possibility of happiness? It was too uncertain. And the whole thing was ludicrous anyway. They were mates. Best mates. The thought of things going tits-up was too painful to even imagine. And he was Jaime Lannister, for fuck’s sake. And she was … well, she was just Brienne. Steady, dependable Brienne. Surely, he couldn’t really think it would work. She and Jaime. Brienne and Jaime. What would it even be like to have Jaime -- to truly have him? To be his? No, she wasn’t going to afford herself that thought. Instead she was going to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, walking the taut space between them, trying hard not to notice that the space was ever widening. Trying hard ... full stop. However, for all of her careful maneuvering, for all of her false confidence, what Brienne wouldn’t let herself recognise, what she refused to let herself acknowledge, was that it had all gone tits-up already.

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“Fuck’s sake!” Brienne muttered, as the cold, grey water splattered up into her leather pumps, drenching her already numb feet in a cold deluge. She was soaked through to the bone.

When she had decided to walk home from work, waving away Sansa’s offer of a ride, Brienne hadn’t known that the sky would open so suddenly -- although, considering the way her life was currently going, she really should have guessed that the universe would find a way to cock up things up even more. It had started down-pouring ten minutes into her trek home and hadn’t let up since. Struggling against the cold wind, Brienne felt the icy rain running down her neck, soaking her shirt under her thin trench coat -- felt it plastering her hair to her skull. A car rumbled by, splashing a tide of water up onto the pavement, drenching Brienne’s legs in muddy, oily filth, and she closed her eyes in defeat.

The day had been total shit. When Judge Greyjoy’s ruling had come through in the late hours of the work day, Brienne hadn’t been at all prepared. Margaery had warned her to hedge her bets, not to count on “that shriveled cunt Greyjoy” ruling in her favour. However, Brienne had refused to listen. Of course, Judge Greyjoy would see reason -- of course he would understand that the green space Brienne was fighting for was important -- crucial to the community. It was the only bit of nature anywhere close to the Rhaenys’s Hill Housing Estate in Flea Bottom -- the only bit of nature that the children who lived in the crumbling tower of shoddily constructed, government flats had in which to play. And Brienne had presented a convincingly airtight case. Her list of witnesses, environmental experts, and child psychologists was impeccable. And yet, Judge Greyjoy had ruled in favour of the developer -- the sodding developer. Against all logic, Brienne had lost. She had let down the residents, the children, all those who had turned to her for help. And now, because of her loss, a parking garage that charged rates far too high for anyone in the council flats to afford was to be built in the green space. It was enough to make Brienne doubt the existence of good in the world.

Margaery and Sansa had tried to comfort her. However the loss, coupled with what was happening at home with Jaime, was too much for Brienne to weather. She had waved away their concern, their offers to drown her sorrows with pints of alcohol, and had set off to walk away her black mood. Only now she was soaked and cold and discouraged, and she just wanted to cry -- to cry at the injustice of it all.

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Twenty freezing, wet minutes later, Brienne let herself into her flat, dropping her briefcase in the foyer and pulling off her dipping coat. The house was quiet. Jaime must be out. Good. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with his polite remoteness for a little while. She needed a shower -- the hotter the better. She just needed to wash off this sullen despair and negativity so she would be better equipped to deal with Jaime’s inevitable brush off without bursting into tears.

Sighing, she rubbed a cold hand across her face, noticing a bundle of papers piled on the coffee table. Jaime must have been doing something for work. She wondered if Lannister Industries had set its sights on a new parcel of land to destroy. Bloody real estate developers! Shivering, she went over and quickly pulled a paper from the stack. It was, indeed, a real estate listing. However, it was a listing for a two-bedroom flat in Blackwater Bay. Brienne felt the panic rise in her throat, as she stared unseeingly at the paper. She dropped it on the table, scrabbling with frozen fingers at the other papers. They were all listings -- flats and houses for sale and for rent in King’s Landing. Gods … Jaime must be looking for a place. He must be planning to move out.

No. She couldn’t handle this right now. She didn’t have it in her -- didn’t have it in her to deal with the fact that everything was falling apart -- crumbling, despite her careful efforts to hold it all together. She blinked rapidly. The headache she had been nursing all day suddenly intensified, making her skull feel as if it were full of loose-spun wool soaked in vinegar. _Shower, Brienne. Go take a shower._

She stumbled to her room, her wet shoes slipping on the wood flooring.

Jaime moving? Jaime leaving? Why hadn’t he said something? Things “after the sitting room” were bad but surely not that bad. He wanted to leave? To leave her? Did that mean that the friendship was over? Had she lost him?

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. It was not supposed to hurt like this, was it? It was not supposed to ache so relentlessly? She had such a good thing. Such a good and true and wonderful thing. And now... Gods, the unfairness of it all! To have such a beautiful thing and to see it ripped away. She held her head, the pain acute and intense. In that moment, it was worse than when Tormund left. Worse than the vaguely remembered grief of her childhood. She had been so careful. So damn careful, and she had ruined things anyway.

Brienne was used to hardship. She was used to disappointment. She was used to stoically pressing on regardless of her circumstances. But this ... gods, this! How was she supposed to press on from this?

She lurched into her bedroom, collapsing back against the door with a hiccuping sob, peering down at her rain-soaked shoes. Wonderful. Those were ruined too. Everything was ruined. Everything was bloody well ruined! Suddenly, the anger and frustration she had been carrying around with her seemed too much to bear. She reached down to wrench off her sopping work shoes, a bitter, primal wail breaking from her throat. The shoes trailed water all over her floor, as she threw them across the room in blind despair. She didn’t care, though. She didn’t care at all. Let the floor be ruined, everything sodding else was!

Gasping for breath, Brienne brought a shaking hand to her neck, pulling at her collar. Her sodden work clothes were suddenly smothering her -- constricting her -- strangling the very breath out of her. She had to get them off. Had to get them off of her now! With numb, ungraceful fingers, she fumbled with buttons, tears streaming down her face.

“Gods -- get off!” she cried, ripping the sides of her shirt apart, tiny, pearl-shaped buttons flying across the room. The clothes were choking her, twisting around her in a vise-like grip. She tore off her shirt, cursing when it stuck to one wrist, the silk tangling around her fingers and forearm. “Gods, gods! Get the fuck off!” she howled, sure she was going to pass out, if she didn’t release herself. Her breath was coming in gasps, and she gulped, trying to get enough oxygen.

The sodding zipper was stuck on her skirt, the fabric clinging to her waist, cinching it. She tried to shimmy out of it, but it was too tight. She cried out in frustration, tugging impotently at the waistband. The tears were making it difficult to see, but she somehow rucked the skirt around her waist and ripped down a seam, feeling the tear of the fabric deep in her chest. She stepped out of it, wrenching the tights from her body in a mighty grasp.

“Gods damn it! Gods damn it!” she cried to herself or to the heavens or to the vindictive gods who surely were having a good laugh at this dumpster fire that had become her life. How did it get like this? How did everything turn to shit so fast? She took a shaky breath and slapped a hand over her mouth to silence her sobs.

“Brienne?” Jaime’s worried voice came through the door. “Brienne, are you OK?”

She needed to answer him before he came in. She needed to pull herself together and fucking answer him. However, she couldn’t catch her breath. There was a fist in her throat, the tightly curled fingers preventing the air from filling her lungs. She choked, coughing rawly.

“I’m coming in, OK?” Jaime said. And before she could tell him no, he pushed open the door.

Brienne was standing there in the middle of the room in nothing but her bra and underwear, surrounded by the detritus of her ruined wardrobe. She was visibly shaking, a hand pressed to her mouth, streaks of tears and mascara running down her face. Jaime’s heart leapt to his throat at the sight, all his careful reserve hurriedly abandoned.

“Oh gods, Brienne,” he cried, hurrying to her. He put his arms around her stiff frame. “Brienne, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” And then, when she wouldn’t answer, “Come on. Come on.” He gently moved her arm away from her mouth so he could embrace her fully. She was cold to the touch, shaking with restrained sobs. “Oh, Brienne. Come on, wench, let’s sit. Let’s just sit here for a while.” He carefully maneuvered her to the bed.

“I ruined my clothes,” she croaked, looking at him with those big blue eyes, miserable and hurt.

“It’s OK,” Jaime soothed. “They’re just clothes.” Her cold, shaking body was starting to warm slightly under his touch. He grasped her tightly, pulling her into him. “It’s OK, Brienne. I’ve got you.”

She let him hold her, didn’t resist; however, her muscles were still stiff and tightly coiled, trembling with an impliable energy.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

At that, she gave a gasp so pitiful, Jaime felt his heart would break on the spot. “Everything,” she cried, her voice thready and high, catching on the last syllable. “Everything is wrong.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jaime said, squeezing her tightly. “Did something happen at work?”

“No,” Brienne said thickly. She reached up a hand to wipe her nose. “Yes. Yes, work was shit … but that’s not … Gods, I just ...” She pulled back from Jaime, running a hand across her face, wiping ineffectively at the wetness there. “Everything’s just a mess right now.” She locked eyes with him, the blue of hers shining with dejection and betrayal. “I saw the printouts… the listings.”

“Oh.” His face closed infinitesimally, his eyes shifting nervously away from her. “I meant to talk to you about it, I just … well, I just couldn’t seem to…”

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question.

Jaime closed his eyes, breathing in a soft breath. “Yes. I.. well, I think I have to.”

Brienne nodded, her eyes tearing up again. “Because of me.”

“No,” Jaime said in a rush, his voice edging on desperation. “No, Brienne -- because of me.” He looked at her, huddled rigidly on the bed in her underwear. “It’s just difficult… I mean, I don’t think…”

Brienne shook off his arms, sitting back on the bed and pulling her long legs up to her chest, her own arms wrapping tightly around them, her pale flesh covered in goose pimples. “Right.”

“It’s just that … well, I mean, I can’t live with you forever. And it’s just difficult right now for me to be here… with you. I mean, I suppose I’ll get used to it after awhile, but right now, it’s hard…” He trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said miserably. “I’m so sorry. I fucked everything up. I thought I could fix it. I thought we could just go back...”

“Oh, wench, don’t be sorry,” Jaime replied sadly. “I can’t force you to feel something you don’t.”

“It’s not that,” Brienne said, shaking her head. “It isn’t that at all…”

“Then what is it?” Jaime asked, his voice low. “What is all this about? Because you are obviously upset.” He moved closer to her on the bed, reaching out and taking one of her tightly fisted hands. “Brienne, tell me what you’re feeling. Tell me why you’re so upset.”

Her face crumpled, and she buried it in her knees. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I just ache. Every part of me aches when I think of you, and you leaving, and you not wanting to be with me anymore.”

“Oh, Brienne.” Jaime rasped, playing with her cold, immobile fingers. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you. I want to be with you too much.”

“This whole thing is too much,” she protested, lifting her head from her knees. She looked at him furiously. “You are too much.”

“I know. I know.”

“Why are you too much, Jaime? Why are you like this?”

Jaime huffed out a sad little laugh. “I just am. I’ve always been too much... or not enough.”

She took her hand back from him, reaching up to rub her swollen eyes. “I just want things to go back to how they were.”

Jaime looked at her sadly. “But they can’t. They can’t go back to how they were.”

“Because you love me?”

“Because I am in love with you.” He swallowed, watching her take deep breaths -- in and out, her ribs straining on each inhale.

“Look, I know you deserve someone better,” he explained, his tone quiet. “Someone who is worthy of you and who doesn’t fuck up all the time or break your nose or hurt you by saying the stupidest things. But I love you, Brienne. I’m very much in love with you. I’m sorry if that is terrifying or repellent. But it’s the truth.”

“It’s not repellent, Jaime. It’s not!” she cried, her cheeks were burning with indignation. “How could you think that?” How could he think that he was not good enough for her? He was Jaime. Beautiful, funny, witty, kind, intelligent Jaime. “Jaime...Gods, the fact that you could love me -- that you could fall in love with me. It’s … well, I don’t even have a word for it, it’s so mind-boggling. But you have to know, I don’t think you unworthy. You have to know how much I… I ... value you. How much I care for you.”

He frowned, and she reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling it to her. “Jaime Lannister you are the best person I know.” Her voice was choked, the words muzzy. “I can’t even imagine not having you in my life. You make everything better -- more complicated, but better. You are the person I want at my back -- always. You are the person I trust more than anyone. And I don’t trust easily, Jaime. I don’t. But I trust you. Gods, I trust you. So don’t think ...”

“Then Brienne, trust me with this,” Jaime pleaded desperately, cutting her off mid-sentence and wrenching his hand away from hers. He reached over her knees, grabbing her face in both of his hands, the good and the broken, turning her gaze towards him. “Gods, just trust me. I love you. I am in love with you. I don’t want you because you are here and convenient or because I can’t have someone else or because I’m out of touch with my emotions and am grasping for a warm body. I want you because you are you, and I am desperately, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you. I fully realize that, despite what you say, I am a truly terrible person. But being with you makes me a little less terrible. And I can’t promise that things will be easy. I can’t promise you that I won’t keep fucking up and saying the wrong things and acting like a git, but I promise you, I am true and honest, and I love you, Brienne Tarth.”

“Oh hells!” Brienne cried, reeling back sharply out of his grasp, a tortured expression twisting her features. “Why are you like this, Jaime Lannister? Why are you like this? You’re just ...” And then she was on him.

She wasn’t even aware of making the decision. One minute she was yelling at him, truly outraged, and the next minute Jaime was on his back on her bed, and she was curled over him kissing him like her very life depended on it.

At first, he was immobile, shock and caution freezing his features. But then her hand slipped out from under her, and her chest fell heavily against his, and that seemed to light something in him. His arms came up, grabbing her hips, as he pressed his mouth up into hers urgently. And then, it was just heat.

Somewhere in the midst of the heat and emotion, she had a sudden moment of panic. There was no going back from this. There was no way they could ever go back from this. Shit, what was she thinking taking such a massive risk? But his mouth was warm on hers, and he was mumbling a strange incantation of endearments, and she wanted … she just wanted him so badly. She wanted him here, in her house, in her bed, with her -- couldn’t imagine him being anywhere else -- couldn’t imagine being without him. And she knew there were no guarantees. She knew things could end painfully. But she wanted him -- Gods, she wanted him. And he was here and warm and so, so Jaime, and she couldn’t help herself. She just couldn’t help herself. She pressed her body into his, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer in her need, and she felt him shudder beneath her. They were breathing hard, tangled up in the sheets of her unmade bed.

Sensing her slight hesitation, Jaime pulled back from her mouth, looking at her, his eyes dark and full of complicated emotions. He watched her carefully.

Nervous under his heated gaze, Brienne brought a cold finger up to her mouth, gnawing on an errant hangnail, trying to catch her breath in this whirling jumble of touch and desire and fear.

Jaime smiled softly, bringing his hand to her drying hair, smoothing the wild, pale strands. “I love you,” he said simply.

“How? How can you? How can you be so sure?” she asked desperately. This whole thing seemed beyond her. The room was tilting, the shades and shapes coalescing madly in a strange kaleidoscope of colours. She felt both incredibly warm and chillingly cold, her pale limbs shivering. She was vaguely aware that she was rolling around with Jaime in just her underwear. She should put on some clothes, but the whole thing just seemed so damn surreal. It was like having emotional vertigo, her thoughts and actions off-kilter, making everything seem dizzy and electric.

“I don’t know. I just am. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” He ran his fingers down her jaw, tilting her head until she met his eyes. “I know you don’t completely trust me yet -- that you still think I’m hung up on .. well, you know. But, if you could only feel what I feel. It doesn’t even feel like a choice -- loving you.”

Brienne bit her lip nervously, her eyes skittering to a point just beyond his shoulder.

“Does that scare you?”

“It just seems so soon.”

“Brienne, we’ve known each other for years.”

“But Cersei…” She watched him wince at the name.

“Do you really think that was love?”

“Yes,” Brienne breathed. “Maybe not on her part, but on yours … yes.”

Jaime frowned. “Maybe so,” he conceded. “But that love was -- destructive, cold. Loving her was like trying to love an iceberg. This,” he palmed her neck. “This feels completely different. This feels … I don’t know, easy perhaps?”

“Easy?” Her voice came out choked. She reached up a shaking hand to rub her face. His hand was heavy on her neck and shoulder -- the weight and warmth distracting her. She blinked, trying to clear her head. “How is any of this easy? This feels like the most difficult thing in the world right now.”

“Not for me.” He suddenly went silent, removing his hand and rolling on his back to contemplate the ceiling. “Wait… does that mean?” His voice was soft, tentative. “Do you…” He broke off, hating himself for the desperation in his voice. “I mean, I’ve told you I love you now a couple of times, and you just said that this wasn’t easy. Does that mean…?”

Brienne felt her stomach roil and had to restrain herself from bolting from the room. Easy -- hah! Jaime Lannister had never been easy -- not for one day of his whole damn existence! He was too much. This whole thing was too much. She turned her head towards him, freezing when she met his openly anxious gaze. _Shit, shit, shit. What now, Brienne? How the fuck do you get out of this? And why won’t this damn room stop spinning?_ If only she could clear her head and truly think.

He looked at her expectantly.

“Hells, Lannister,” she finally groaned, trying for humour. “You’re in my bed. I've just kissed you against my better judgement. Stop being so damn needy all the time.”

Jaime smiled, although it wasn’t enough to mask the very real anxiety in his eyes. “Brienne I think you are well aware that needy is, in fact, my middle name.”

She smiled a tentative smile and let out a relieved breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you are exhausting?”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “Quite a bit actually.” He rolled toward her, putting a hand tentatively on her hip. “But I still want to know.”

“Fine, you’re exhausting.”

“No, wench -- the love part.” Jaime licked his lips. He felt like he was poised on the edge of a precipice. It was too soon, he knew that. It was too soon, and she was panicking. He was sure to scare her away, but somehow, knowing all this, he just couldn’t stop himself. He had to know.

“Jaime.” His hand was hot burning an imprint onto her body. She could feel the intensity rising in her throat.

“Come on now. Just tell me. It’s OK if you don’t ...” He tried to keep his voice light.

“So bloody exhausting.”

“I’ll just keep this up until you tell me. Come on. I’m OK either way. I promise. I’m just happy that…”

“Of course I love you, you idiot!” Brienne cried finally, trying to focus on his face to stop the room from spinning. “We’re best friends. You’ve been living with me forever. How can you imagine that I don’t love you?”

“Ah, you love me like that then.” He smiled at her ruefully, rolling over onto his back.

“Yes,” Brienne replied. She looked at the space where he had just been, puzzled, trying to discern why his mood had suddenly changed. “Wait, like what? What’s wrong?”

“Well, wench, I already knew that you loved me like that,” Jaime said carefully, trying not to look crestfallen. “I only hoped that... I mean, do you think… Well, I wonder if you could ever be in love with me? Do you think it’s possible?” His expression was so anxious, hesitant. He smiled a faint smile not quite able to meet her eyes, his face guardedly set, as if steeling himself for a blow.

As difficult as these past weeks had been for Brienne, they must have been excruciating for poor Jaime -- constantly offering himself to her and constantly being rejected. Brienne felt her heart soften, the room suddenly coming into sharp focus. A dozen quips came to mind, a dozen jests to avoid exposing the soft, defenseless part of her. However, she shoved them back and allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. “Honestly, Jamie, I think somewhere in the back of my mind I’ve always been slightly in love with you, only I’ve known better than to seriously consider it.”

She watched as his tentative expression morphed into smug smirk. His eyes flashed victoriously, and he looked all the world like the proud lion of past -- a version of Jaime she hadn’t seen in ages. He rolled up onto his elbow. “Oh, you’ve always been in love with me, have you?”

She huffed out a breath tinged with both exasperation and relief. “I said slightly. And did you miss the part about knowing better than to act on it because that was the important part?”

He ignored her, reaching out a tentative hand to play with one of her wet bra straps. “Always, wench? Always? When you were yelling at me in Baelish’s office?” His grin sharpened, his eyes alight. “When you were with the Wildling?”

“Stop,” she said severely, brushing his hand away and rolling away from him. “This is exactly why I never seriously considered it.”

He became suddenly thoughtful. “You know, Tyrion …”

“Seven hells, not Tyrion again,” Brienne griped.

“No, no -- this time Tyrion might be onto something,” Jaime explained. “He’s convinced that I’ve been in love with you since the early days. Maybe he’s right. I remember that first day in Baelish’s office. I kept thinking to myself, ‘she is ludicrously intimidating. I must learn more about her.’ I was instantly drawn to you.”

“Please,” Brienne snorted. “You were completely hung up on Cersei in those days. I could have walked into Baelish’s office wearing nothing but heels and smile, and you wouldn’t have looked twice.”

Jaime’s mouth dropped slightly open at that, his eyes glazing over, as the mental picture of all six foot six of a naked Brienne in heels materialized in his mind.

Brienne resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands. “Jaime! Focus!” she said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Gods, you’re incorrigible as well as exhausting.”

Jaime grinned and shook his head to clear it. “Be that the case, I still sought you out, wench. Do you know how much courage it took for me to sit next to you in the cinema that first time?”

“Do you know how much restraint it took for me not to tell you to sod off?” she groused.

“You see -- we probably half-loved each other back then.” He beamed in delight, leaning over to kiss her softly on her lovely, crooked nose. “This explains so much.”

“Does it really though?”

“Yes,” he nodded his head vigorously. “It does. I always just chalked it up to not having a close friend before, that warm, buzzing feeling I felt every time I was around you. But maybe what I was feeling was love. Perhaps a part of my heart has always been yours.”

“Jamie, I think you’re romanticizing.”

“You’re the one who said you’ve always been in love with me, wench.”

“I’ve subsequently decided that was incorrect,” she said primly, giving him a long-suffering look.

“Too late.” He was grinning now, sitting up and advancing on her like the cat that got the cream. “And think of all the time we’ve wasted being friends.”

“What?” Brienne sputtered, affronted. “We haven’t wasted anything. Our friendship is brilliant. I’ve been an excellent friend.”

“Wasted. So. Much. Time.” He caught her outraged face in his good hand and leaned in.

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Although it had only ever been with Cersei, Jaime Lannister had had a great deal of sex in his life -- good sex, filthy sex. The Martells were renowned throughout Westeros for their sexual adventurousness, and Jaime had definitely reaped the benefits. However, he had never quite experienced what he was currently experiencing with Brienne.

Strangely enough, it felt like he was on the edge of emotional collapse. He felt raw, exposed --- totally unarmed. It was utterly disconcerting. Maybe it had something to do with his hand, the open vulnerability required in exposing his now less than perfect body. Or it could have something to do with the fact that Brienne was his very best friend, and he was taking a real risk with all of this, and, if history was indicative of anything, he was sure to fuck everything up. Or it could be because this was the first time he had ever made love to a woman who wasn’t Cersei, and as much as he wanted to not think of her, the spectre of her was still hovering. Or maybe it was just the fact that Brienne loved him -- she admitted that she loved him, and he felt that love in every small movement and whispered word. Whatever it was, it was simply too much for Jaime to process, and he soon found himself completely immobilized by the intensity of his emotions.

_“Fuck, Lannister. Don’t do this. Steady on, man, steady on,”_ he mentally admonished himself, as Brienne nibbled behind his ear and delicately licked the sharp edge of his jawline.

Surprisingly, after her initial fear and reluctant admission of love, Brienne had seemed to suddenly find true strength of conviction. Ever the warrior, Brienne had always been good with physical demonstrations of strength and competence, and this seemed no different. She was taking to it -- taking to him -- like a fish to water. Jaime, on the other hand, was slowly drowning.

He groaned in frustration, furious at his traitorous body._ “Move your fucking hands, you git,”_ he mentally chastised himself, his hands clamped onto Brienne’s shoulders in a deathgrip. Damn it! Brienne was in bed naked as her name day, and he was acting like he had never seen a woman’s body before. For all of his big talk and grand declarations, this whole thing was rapidly turning into one massive exercise in humiliation.

“Jaime,” Brienne murmured, pulling back from where she was nuzzling his neck. “Are you still with me? I feel like you’re a million miles away.”

At her voice, Jaime thought he would break down and cry. He had to close his eyes very tightly to regain his control. What in seven hells was wrong with him?

She cradled his face, her expression worried. “Jaime. Are you all right? Shall we stop?”

“No,” he rasped, panicking a bit. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to start -- to start, damn it and to never, ever stop. Now if he could just get his body to obey.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he mumbled, pulling back slightly. “I don’t know what’s … It’s just that…” He groaned, trying to find the words. Gods, he had wanted to do this for weeks now -- had been the one to talk Brienne into the whole damn thing. Yet here he was acting like the shy virgin. It was sex! He had done it a million times. So why was this proving to be so sodding difficult?

“Jaime, what’s wrong?” Brienne asked worriedly. “Are you having second thoughts?”

Oh no, she was starting to be “distant Brienne,” “closed Brienne,” “I’ve taken the time to think about this whole thing and realised that it’s a shit idea Brienne.” He could see it in her eyes -- those incredible eyes that were currently looking at him as if he had lost his mind.

_Fuck, Lannister. You better salvage this._

He started babbling, his anxiety and exasperation making his words jumble and run together. “Hells, Brienne, I don’t know. I just feel.... I just feel like it’s not enough.”

Her expression went very still, and he saw a shadow pass over her face.

“No, no!” he cried out, realising his mistake. “I didn’t mean you are not enough… gods, wench, I’m total crap at this.” He groaned and turned on his side, tentatively reaching out with his good hand to trace his fingertips over the length of her collarbone, attempting to allay her wariness with his touch. He took a deep breath and tried again. “The truth is, I know I sometimes talk a big game. Well actually, I always talk a big game. And I wanted this -- I mean I want this.” He dipped his fingers lower and traced the top swell of her breast, his voice needy and rough. “I really, really want this. But I’m just finding myself completely overwhelmed being here with you. I never thought...I mean recently I had hoped, but I never dreamed we’d ever actually be here. And I’m enjoying it immensely. Of course I am. And yet, I’m just desperately feeling like it’s not enough.” He looked away, not meeting her gaze. “I just feel like, no matter how I try, I can’t get close enough to you. I can’t kiss you enough, touch you enough, anything I say isn’t enough. I just …” He broke off hoarsely. “I can’t explain it well. It’s so much more than I ever hoped for, but it is still not enough or maybe I’m not enough and I’m trying to be, but I’m not.” He went quiet for a moment before looking up at her, naked fear in his eyes. “It sounds ridiculous because I was the one who talked you into all this, but now that we’re here, I guess I’m just worried. Shit … I feel like you could completely destroy me, Brienne.”

Brienne gazed at him solemnly, the cautious rigidity draining from her expression. This. This was something she understood in the dark and secret corners of her being. She leaned over and reached for him, her long fingers skimming his throat and coming to rest on his rapidly beating heart and pressing down. “I know,” she said soberly. “Believe me, Jaime, I know. But I won’t. Trust me.”

“I do! Of course, I do!” He choked out something between a laugh and a sob. “Gods, I’m acting like a complete idiot. I’m sorry for being so dramatic.”

“You? Dramatic? Surely not,” Brienne quipped, the left corner of her mouth turning up in a fond smirk. She pushed him back gently, leaning forward onto his chest to look into his eyes. “This is a rather big deal, Jamie,” she said seriously. “I’d be worried if you weren’t dramatic.”

He brought his arm around her tightly, his voice suddenly growing heavy. “Fuck all, Brienne. I’m terrified. I just really don’t want to muck this up.”

“You won’t.”

“I always do.”

“Not with me, my love. Not with me.” She bent down and kissed him softly, a tiny scrape of her lips against his. But it was enough to quell his fears for the moment. He leaned up to capture her mouth, dragging her down into him, his good hand tangling in her wild hair, his broken hand pressing against the warm small of her back. He felt the heat suffuse up over his chest as the kiss intensified, and he worked to shut off his mind and just feel.

From there, things began to catch fire -- a slow, smouldering fire with moments of clumsiness amidst the flames. There was the time early on when Jaime was in the middle of kissing her and found himself completely zoning out on the shape of her mouth. He was so enraptured by the curve of her upper lip, how it felt against his tongue, how the fullness of it fit perfectly between his own lips, that he forgot the ultimate goal of the activity in which the two of them were engaged. Finally, Brienne was forced to pull back and encourage him on to the next step, deftly placing his hands and directing his mouth elsewhere. Jaime would have been mortified, if his brain had been working properly. And then there was the time when Brienne had mumbled his name over and over with such love that he had completely stopped what he was doing to listen to her in awe. That one did not go over well at all -- Brienne actually sitting up and glaring at him. He had resumed his previous activities immediately, still in a daze from the fact that it was his name in her mouth. Then of course, there was the time when she reached out and took him in hand for the first time. Great sex god that he was, Jaime almost fell apart right there. He had to pull away very quickly, counting to fifty in his rusty High Valyrian in order to regain control -- like he was some green boy at his first bedding.

However, eventually they found a rhythm. Jaime finally allowed himself to let go of the caution coiled in his muscles -- to give himself over to the inexorable push and pull of emotion instead of desperately trying to control it. It was overwhelming, this towering wave of heat and desire. As they moved, he felt it crashing all around him, seeping up into his chest, his throat, his mouth, his eyes, until, no longer able to hold it back, he allowed it to crest -- to come spilling out of him. And in that moment, it was enough. It was everything.

When it was all over, Brienne pulled Jaime’s face away from where it was tightly ensconced between her shoulder and neck. She smiled up at him, wiping the wetness from his cheeks. “Hey,” she whispered fondly. “Are you all right?”

Jaime rolled his eyes, trying to deflect the gravity of the moment. He had just made love to Brienne. To Brienne. His friend -- his best friend -- and now, impossibly, his lover. He smiled sheepishly. “It’s all part of my charm, wench. What woman doesn’t dream of an emotionally unstable partner in bed?” He barked out a sarcastic laugh. “Gods, Brienne. I swear, I’m really much better at this. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“No -- I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant, Jaime.” She reached up, kissing him softly. “I just want you to know that you can cry all day long, and I won’t be sorry.”

He pushed up further and looked at her sadly. “I’m not usually such a mess.”

Brienne laughed at that. “Yes you are.” When his face fell, she pulled him back down to her. “But you’re my mess, and you’re lovely.” She kissed the top of his head affectionately.

“Thank you,” Jaime mumbled, embarrassed. He glanced away from her, unable to meet her eyes.

But she was having none of that. Suddenly, she gripped the back of his head and brought his forehead to rest on her own, her face growing serious. “Hear me now, Jaime Lannister. You are enough. You’ve always been.”

Jaime gave her a watery smile. He was bone-weary. Completely empty. It was as if years and years of tension and emotion that had been trapped inside of him had finally been released, leaving behind an empty, hollow husk. But still -- still -- he felt whole.

He felt enough.

“And now we have something else to add to your ‘Reasons Why Jaime is Tremendous' list,” Brienne continued, carding her long fingers through his hair.

“The fact that I’m a mess?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “No, I was speaking more to your performance before the tears.” She gestured down at her body, stretching languidly and wiggling her toes. “Quite a performance, by the way, Mr. Lannister. Rather tremendous, if I do say so myself.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirked, a little of the old Jaime peeking through.

“Indeed.”

“Best you’ve ever had?”

“Now, Jaime, don’t get cocky.”

He rolled completely onto her, his exhaustion forgotten. “Oh, wench, I’ll show you cocky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! At last they are together! I hope it was worth the wait and the very long chapter. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all of your lovely support and encouragement. Your words mean more than I can say.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft, softy softness -- because the world is hard enough already. Oh, and meadows!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve reached the end, folks! For real this time. 
> 
> Fun fact: The last scene was actually the first scene I wrote for this fic many, many moons ago. I kept hearing the One Republic lyric I’ve quoted for this chapter and couldn’t stop envisioning the scene in my head. And then finally, after days of torment, I thought -- well, why the hell not? How difficult could it really be? (manic laughter ensues).

**.....................................................................................................................................................................................**

**You’re like the net under the ledge**   
**When I go flying off the edge,**   
**You go flying off as well**

**One Republic “Something I Need”**   
**....................................................................................................................................................................................**

“Gods!” Jaime muttered under his breath, as he lost his footing on the loose shale for the millionth godsdamn time, sending him careering back on his ass. If he survived today, it would be a fucking miracle.

Brienne paused and turned back, looking at him fondly, a faint smile playing across her features. “Everything all right there, my love?”

“Oh yes. Enjoying myself immensely,” Jaime deadpanned from his place on the ground where he was sprawled out, limbs akimbo. Bracing his hands against the slippery stones, he hauled himself back up, tentatively flexing his creaky knees and brushing the dirt and gravel off of his backside. “Can’t think of a better way to be spending such a lovely day. It’s almost as fun as losing half of my hand.”

Brienne snorted out a laugh at that. “Gods’ sake, Lannister -- always the drama queen, aren’t we?” She turned back towards the path, raising a hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun. “Take heart, pet. It’s not far now. Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be there.”

Jaime winced. “Lovely,” he muttered darkly. “Can’t wait.”

As much as Jaime wanted the bloody hike to be over, he was even less excited about the prospect of their destination. What in seven hells had he been thinking agreeing to this? Well, that was the fucking problem now, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking at all. And now he was going to die. There was no avoiding it. And sodding Brienne, who was supposed to love him better than any other person on the planet, was actually gleeful about the whole thing.

It was fucking ironic, if he really thought about it. He had been the one to suggest coming here. Oh yes, it had been Jaime’s grand idea to come to Tarth and see the sights. Brienne had thought them too busy to make the trip, but he -- oh, he had bloody well insisted, hadn’t he?_ “It will be good to get out of King’s Landing,”_ he had cajoled, leveling his best puppy dog eyes at Brienne. _“We need time away from all the stress and hassle of daily life.”_ Hells, what he wouldn’t give to be safe and sound and squarely back in the stress and hassle of daily life right about now.

Jaime’s foot slipped again, but, throwing his arms out, he managed to catch himself before he could fall. Shit. It wasn’t fair. After everything he had been through these past months -- after everything they had been through together -- it was all going to end like this.

.............................................................................................................................................................................................................

It had not been easy.

And it should have been.

By all rights, it should have been easy. After all, he and Brienne had been very best friends for five years. And they had lived together for well over six months. They knew each other fundamentally -- knew each other better than they knew any other person in their respective worlds. They knew every flaw, every quirk, every annoying peccadillo. Thus they were prepared -- well prepared to take that next step into coupledom. Really, if anyone should have fallen easily from friendship into an actual relationship, it should have been Jaime and Brienne. However, much to Jaime’s surprise, the two of them did not fall easily from friendship into an actual relationship. In fact, the first few months were rather disastrous, if he were being honest.

Jaime blamed it on the fact that Brienne spent all of her time waiting for the floor to drop out from underneath her. Brienne blamed it on the fact that Jaime’s only previous experience in a committed relationship had been with a certified sociopath.

In the end, they were both correct.

Despite how many assurances Jaime gave, despite the fact that he was stupidly in love with Brienne and not afraid to show it, it was obvious that Brienne wasn’t entirely convinced that Jaime was “in it” for the long run. She tried -- oh, she really tried. However, she just couldn’t shake the innate insecurity she felt about Jaime’s level of commitment. This, in turn, completely pissed Jaime off, being that Brienne seemed very secure in almost every other aspect of her life. Hells, (he had pointed out, in one of his less than stellar moments), Brienne had been all kinds of secure in her relationship with Tormund, up until the very end. With the Wildling, for fuck’s sake! No, it was only with _Jaime_ that Brienne’s confidence seemed unsteady -- with Jaime, whom she claimed to love.

Of course, Jaime knew that Brienne’s insecurity was largely due to Cersei -- well to Cersei and perhaps to his previous tendency to be completely consumed by Cersei -- or maybe to his propensity to frequently go back to Cersei -- or to the fact that, before all this, he somehow always ended up forgiving Cersei -- or maybe it had something to do with his former habit of using Brienne as a sounding board for his relationship with Cersei. Whatever! That shouldn’t matter now! He wasn’t that man anymore. He wasn’t. And he couldn’t help but resent the fact that Brienne couldn’t or wouldn’t completely let it go.

The night of Cersei’s wedding to Robert Baratheon (which Jaime hadn’t even acknowledged, godsdamn it), Brienne had picked a ridiculous fight (largely because Jaime hadn’t, in fact, actually acknowledged it). After a stupid argument that had escalated into a screaming match, Brienne had ultimately stormed off in a huff to sleep in the guest room. Jaime was livid. So livid, in fact, that he thought very seriously about letting Brienne brood alone in the bloody guest room all night long. If she weren’t going to believe that he was over Cersei after all of this time, there was nothing he could fucking do about it. However in the end, he missed Brienne -- found that he couldn’t sleep without her, and ended up crawling into the guest room bed and showing her exactly how much he was over Cersei. It took a great deal of convincing, but luckily Jaime was up to the task.

The next morning at the breakfast table, Brienne’s face had been puffy and her eyes still slightly red from crying, but her smile had come more easily and had seemed, for the first time in a long time, heartbreakingly sincere.

For her part, along with the whole Cersei thing, Brienne had a difficult time initially adjusting to Jaime’s neediness. Even as a friend, Jaime had always been high maintenance. However, “boyfriend Jaime” was a whole different kind of needy. Where Brienne could push off “friend Jaime’s” neediness with a joke or a fond rebuff, “boyfriend Jaime” would sulk and fume at any less than receptive response.

Brienne loved Jaime. She truly, truly loved him. She told him that often. Because he needed telling. Frequently. However, Brienne also loved having a bit of space and time to herself. Needed it, in fact. The ridiculous thing was that Jaime knew this about her. He knew it! In fact, he’d been grand at giving her that space when they were just mates. However, now that they were in a relationship, Jaime was constantly pushing Brienne’s boundaries and falling into a temper if Brienne pushed back. Actually, he was often a bit of a prick about it -- throwing out a cutting barb or a scathing remark as a defense mechanism.

Finally, after one particularly nasty spat a little over a month into their relationship, Brienne had sat Jaime down and reminded him that she was not Cersei; and that, unlike Cersei’s love, Brienne’s love for him was not conditional; and that just because she wanted a little time to herself, didn’t mean she loved him any less; and that even when she couldn’t stand him because he was being a right dick, she loved him. And Jaime had huffed a little and sulked a little, and then they had ended up in bed pushing each others’ boundaries in the good way.

No, the early days of the relationship were not easy by any measure. It took many, many discussions and consolations and tearful confessions of insecurity and promises and more promises and apologies and more apologies before things eased. But things did eventually ease.

When Cersei’s baby came (a skinny, black-haired boy named Joffrey), Brienne had come home from work that day with a huge bouquet of flowers, a bottle of Iron Islands Gin, and a bag of limes.

When Jaime had asked what they were celebrating, Brienne replied, “Us. You and me. Being here -- now.” He could have kissed her. In fact, he did -- numerously and in a multitude of places.

Although their relationship was nothing like the sweeping love stories of courtly romances and faery tales, even in the fraught, early days, there was a strength and depth to their love that rivaled any epic love story. They loved each other determinedly and honestly, and they were willing to put in the work it took to sustain that love. The two of them fought hard, but they also loved hard. They had become friends against all odds. And they were bound and determined to beat the hell out of those same fucking odds when it came to a relationship, no matter what obstacles stood in their way.

Surprisingly, their families did not offer much in the way of obstacles. Oh, Tywin had not been particularly thrilled to find out that Jaime had moved in permanently with Brienne. However, this disapproval was only because Tywin was loathe to have a Lannister living in the stodgy, middle class neighborhood of King’s Landing in which Brienne resided. In fact, Tywin hadn’t been at all shocked when Jaime had announced that he and Brienne were a couple. He had simply smiled faintly and passed Jaime a catalogue of real estate listings, some of the more ecologically friendly complexes circled and annotated in Tywin’s precise scrawl. Yes, beyond all expectation, “Tywin the Great and Terrible” had taken to Brienne -- his usual rapacious smile turning distantly fond whenever he looked at her. It was the damnedest thing, really. So much so that, after a remarkably pleasant family dinner in which Tywin and Brienne had civilly debated the merits of solar energy, Tyrion had started referring to Brienne as “Tywin’s favorite son.”

Jaime had immediately punched his brother, thinking Tyrion was being insulting. But he wasn’t. The fact of the matter was that Brienne fit almost seamlessly into what amounted to family in the Lannister realm. In true Brienne-like form, she smoothed things, eased things, made everything just a bit more bearable and a bit less dysfunctional.

And Jaime was welcomed by Brienne’s family with the openest of arms. When Brienne had called home with the news, Selwyn had been over the moon -- although Brienne had quipped that she could have informed her father that she was dating the awful, lewd man from the coffee shop, and Selwyn would have been thrilled. He just wanted to see his daughter happy and was willing to give any prospect a fair shake. Not for the first time, Jaime wondered what it would have been like to have grown up with such support. He couldn’t even wrap his brain around it.

Brienne sweetly reminded him that he had it now -- that unconditional support. In fact, with Selwyn in on the mix, Jaime might just be in danger of being supported to death. But, honestly, Jaime couldn’t think of a better way to go.

It surprised him sometimes -- what his life had become. Oh, it wasn’t like he felt neglected before -- like he missed it -- the love and support, the gentle kindness and consideration. One can’t miss what one doesn’t fully comprehend. But now that he had it, he wondered how he was able to survive so long without it. It was such a beautiful, fragile thing, and he was almost afraid to completely claim it, for fear that it would be snatched away. Yet it wasn’t snatched away. In fact it grew in strength over time until it simply became a part of Jaime’s reality.

So while, in the end, coming together hadn’t been exactly easy, the ordeal of it had tempered their love -- made it stronger, more impenetrable to hostile forces. And as Jaime liked to remind Brienne when she was ready to murder him in his sleep for being a complete and utter prat, nothing truly extraordinary was ever easy.

Visiting Tarth had just seemed a natural step in the progression of their relationship. They were in a good place -- a solid place, and Jaime couldn’t remember ever being happier. So he had done what any self-respecting, doting boyfriend would have done to take the relationship into the next logical phase. He had nagged Brienne incessantly and unrelentingly until she had given in. It wasn’t fair, he argued, that she had been to The Rock, and he had yet to see her homeland.

The truth of the matter was that, at the time, Jaime had been nursing a lovely, romantic fantasy of riding into Tarth the conquering hero, with the prospective Evenstar by his side -- the people of Tarth throwing roses in their path. In this fantasy, he envisioned himself pulling up to Evenfall Hall to great cheers and accolades, and Selwyn officially welcoming him into the fold, making him an honorary islander, perhaps giving him some trident or cutlass or some ancient, ceremonial, family heirloom.

Unfortunately, when Jaime had mentioned this little scenario to Brienne, she had rolled her eyes and reminded him that the Evenstar was really just a useless title in these modern days, and that most people didn’t give a toss about the nobility of families and house sigils and all that. Jaime had sighed and called her a buzzkill, and then he had switched tactics and insisted that he just wanted to go visit Selwyn and to see where Brienne had spent her youth. He wanted to know everything about her, and Tarth was a huge part of who she was, and they had summer holidays coming up, and plane tickets weren’t that expensive, and ...

Brienne had finally conceded just to shut him up for two consecutive minutes.

It had been worth it, though, all the nagging and scheming, just to see Brienne in her natural habitat. She was truly a different person on the island. At six foot three of solid, lean muscle, Brienne had always been a powerful presence -- a force of righteous goodness and strength. However, in this land of sand and sky and water and air, she seemed beyond mortal. A storm god come to life. Jaime could easily imagine her as the next Evenstar, silly title or not. She knew everyone. Was kind to everyone. Walked around with such a supreme level of comfort and confidence, that Jaime was almost overwhelmed by her energy. She was utterly magnificent, and he was totally in awe and, admittedly, a little turned on. She truly, truly belonged to the Stormlands, her very being seemingly carved out of marble and salt.

Not that Jaime felt like an interloper or anything. Selwyn had, in fact, welcomed him with open arms. And much like his fantasy, Jaime had found himself immediately accepted into the fold, albeit with far less fanfare. He was given the place of honor at the Tarth table and fussed over like he was a royal guest. Jaime loved it. He absolutely loved it. But what he loved more than being treated like royalty, was getting to know his girlfriend on an entirely different level.

Indeed, once on the island, Brienne threw herself wide open, revealing more to Jaime than she ever had before. She dragged Jaime around to all of her old childhood haunts, regaling him with stories of her youthful adventures. Together they scrabbled over slick stones to the sea caves that were only exposed during low tide, collecting clams to bring home to cook into milky, peppery chowders for which the island was known.

On windy, overcast days, they commandeered horses from Selwyn’s dwindling stables and rode alongside the cliff face, stopping to eat a quick lunch of bread and cheese, drinking from brown bottles of locally brewed ale and watching the fishing boats float lazily on the horizon -- Brienne falling into a soft, nostalgic mood reminiscing on all the times she used to watch the boats and imagine herself off on grand adventures to the far corners of the world.

On one occasion, Brienne took Jaime into the prickly forests of the island, where she used to play knights and ladies with the local children among the scrub trees. Of course, in those games, Brienne had always played Ser Galladon, saving fair ladies from the evil grasp of marauders and pirates. She laughingly gave Jaime a demonstration of her prowess with the blade, the two of them using long ash sticks as swords. They had gamely beaten against each other for hours until, doubled over with laughter, they had fallen together onto the forest floor for an entirely different kind of thrust and parry.

And in the mornings, Brienne took Jaime down to the sea, where he would sit on the sand and watch her swim, her long body moving sleekly through the waves, as if she were one of them. It was in those moments, especially, watching her powerful body slip through the ocean water, that Jaime felt overwhelmed by a fierce emotion -- an emotion that lodged in his throat and pressed heavily on his chest. He loved her. He loved her more than he had loved anything else in his whole, tired existence. He wanted to fight battles for her. Write songs for her. Cut down enemies for her. He wanted to prove his love for her by putting his very life in danger.

And that’s where everything had gone incredibly and categorically wrong -- stupid, romantic fucker that he was.

It had all started when Brienne had suggested a day of cliff jumping. Jaime had immediately put his foot down. He and Tyrion had done their own fair share of cliff jumping back at The Rock, abandoning it for good when Jaime had had a very close call, and then, two weeks later, a local child had hit his head and drowned. It was stupid and dangerous and, honestly, the whole thing made Jaime a bit sick to his stomach.

Yet when Jaime had refused, Brienne had looked so crestfallen, that he had found himself conceding just a bit. Just a tiny bit, really. He had only promised to go and watch her jump, while he lounged safely, well away from any cliff edge. However, Brienne, sensing weakness, had then set about sweetening the pot, agreeing to play out the ridiculous “lady and stable boy” fantasy that Jaime had been dreaming of ever since he had first spied the hay loft in Selwyn’s stables. It was dirty pool, and Brienne knew it. However, it had worked. She had kissed him and taken off her shirt; and the hay had been soft and scratchy, smelling warmly sweet, and then -- well, then Jaime had found himself agreeing to jumping off of a damn cliff into the damn ocean, putting his damn life at very real risk.

Which was how, on this beautiful, almost too-warm, summer’s day, Jaime found himself trekking after Brienne up a long and winding trail full of brambles and loose stones, cursing his weakness for both his girlfriend and for hay lofts.  
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................

A shower of shale skittered over the side of the steep path. Horrified, Jaime watched the stones slowly fall, gracefully splashing into the ocean far below. Shit. There was no way around it. He was going to die or be mortally wounded or, at the very least, humiliate himself by screaming in panic or pissing his pants. The whole thing was a stupid, awful, dangerous idea. And, of course, Brienne wasn’t at all scared. After all, what’s a little cliff jumping to an indestructible force of nature? Stupid storm gods!

Jaime sighed heavily and turned again to the path, carefully trudging forward so as not to lose his footing. The sun was beating down relentlessly. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his stomach was swirling with nerves. He could still chicken out, couldn’t he? Brienne wouldn’t give him too much of a bad time. She loved him. She would treat him with kindness and empathy and understanding and …

Hah! Jaime had a better chance of becoming a hand model than of any of that happening. Brienne would never let him live it down, if he refused to jump -- especially after all of his ridiculous talk of wanting to prove his love to her like the knights of old. Or, more likely, she would be entirely too understanding and pat him on the head, and then she would go off to perform great feats of courage, leaving him cowering on the edge like a frightened child. No, no, his Lannister pride would never let him subject himself to that particular humiliation. Gods, he was completely fucked.

Suddenly aware that it was too quiet, Jaime anxiously looked up. Brienne wasn’t directly in front of him any longer. In fact, she was nowhere to be seen. He frowned, gazing forward to where the path had come to an abrupt stop -- had wound itself out in a scattering of pale stones. The end (both figuratively and literally).

Jaime swallowed roughly and pulled himself up over the crest of the path. Wincing as the rough rocks scraped against his hands, he scrambled up to a standing position, looking around for Brienne. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, suddenly all disgruntled thoughts left him. Rubbing an arm over his sweaty face, he gazed in awe out at a vast expanse of vibrant green. A cool breeze gusted against him, and he felt the heaviness and anxiety that had been lodged in his chest lift.

He was vaguely aware of Brienne standing to his left, smiling at him, but he was too overcome to acknowledge her. Instead he gazed at the meadow, at the soft grass scattered with blue and purple wildflowers swirling and dancing in the torrents of wind. Out in the distance, the sea broke against the pale rocks of the shore, the quiet sound of it creating a lazy cadence. The sun was hot with no trees overhead, but the sea air blew in fresh and cool. It was unlike anything Jaime had seen before in his life.

“We should get married here,” Jaime said suddenly, surprising himself. Where had that thought even come from?

Brienne turned and looked at him inquisitively, her face still a bit red from exertion. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Jaime frowned and looked back out at the meadow.

She was deliberately ignoring the marriage part of his statement. Of course she was. Jaime couldn’t blame her. It hadn’t been all that long -- only ten months of actual dating, and the first two had been a mess. Surely not long enough to talk about marriage and forever. Gods, he was being a complete fool once again, trying to desperately cling onto any affection he was given. Yes, a bloody pathetic, old fool. Always too much, wasn’t he? He huffed out a laugh at his own ridiculousness, shaking his head ruefully. Besides, he was more than likely going to die anyway. Marriage was a bit of a moot point at this juncture.

“You know,” Brienne broke through his self-deprecating thoughts, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d really rather just go to the registry office. I’m not one for fuss -- pomp and tradition and all that.”

“The registry?” Jaime turned to her, his eyes wide. Surely she didn’t mean. He gaped at her for a long moment. “Wait. Do you mean…? Are you saying you’d consider marrying me?” His voice was suddenly hoarse.

“Well, marriage isn’t really a big deal to me,” Brienne said, her expression thoughtful. She reached up to catch a strand of pale hair that was blowing across her eyes, threading it back behind her ear. “It’s never been something that I’ve longed for or anything.” She gave him a wry grin, looking out at the ocean. “And it’s quite an antiquated custom with very real roots in misogyny. Honestly, I didn’t think it would ever really be an issue for me.” She turned back to Jaime, her smile turning soft. “But if it’s something you want, I’d do it.”

“Really?” Jaime squeaked, his voice incredulous. Suddenly, all his fear and anxiety vanished and a new, fragile hope filled his chest. “You’d marry me? Marry me, Brienne? Are you being serious?”

“Well, yes,” Brienne replied, confused by his reaction. She frowned, trying to read the expression in his face, understanding finally dawning. “Jaime,” she said solemnly, coming towards him to take one of his scraped and battered hands. “Married or not, you do know that you are stuck with me, right?”

He opened his mouth to give a witty remark, but his mind was blank. Instead he blinked very hard, the sunlight suddenly making his eyes water.

“With or without a wedding ring,” Brienne continued softly, “I fully expect to be the one pushing you around in your wheelchair when we are old and grey.”

Jaime laughed at that. “You already tell me that I am old and grey all the damn time, wench.”

“Well, older and greyer then,” Brienne conceded. She reached over and traced the line of his jaw softly, letting her fingers catch on his stubble. “This is it for me, my love. I’m all in.”

Holy Seven and all who were Righteous! Suddenly there was nowhere else Jaime wanted to be other than on this terrifying cliff face with the woman he loved. Hells, he would gladly jump off of a thousand cliffs just to hear her tell him that she wanted him -- wanted him for always.

Brienne smiled a lopsided grin, her eyes soft with emotion.

He reached for her then, kissing her, pulling her toward him roughly and pressing himself into her -- trying to pour all of his love and devotion and gratitude into the kiss. Somewhere along the way his eyes had started watering, but he didn’t care. Brienne’s lips were warm, and her hands were strong and sure, and she loved him. Holy hells, she loved him. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this, to deserve her, but he thanked all seven bloody gods just the same.

“You are truly too good for me, Brienne of Tarth, future Evenstar, and Knight of the Flaming Sword,” he said finally, pulling back to nuzzle into her neck and shoulder. “Much too good for the likes of me.”

When she didn’t respond, he lifted his head and looked at her fondly. “What, wench? No argument?”

“It’s just fact, Jaime,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Everybody knows.” She laughed then, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “Come on now. Stop dawdling.”

She dragged him down to the broken path amongst the grasses, to where the cliff face broke off into bright expanse of blue. Sky and water met and melded together, the deep blue of the ocean grading up into the softer cobalt of the sky. Down below, the water pooled and churned.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Jaime asked, grimacing. His nerves were still fizzing uncomfortably in his stomach; however they were slowly being overcome by a strange feeling of giddy elation. “It’s rather a far drop. I wouldn’t want there to be rocks below. Risk marring this pretty face.”

“It’s safe,” Brienne replied. “I’ve done it a million times.” When Jaime still looked unconvinced, she tugged on their joined hands. “Come on, Lannister. Trust me. When have I ever led you wrong?”

He tore his eyes away from the ocean below to look at her. “You haven’t,” he said solemnly. “Ever.”

“Then come on.” She peeled off her cut-offs and jumper and waited in her practical one piece for him to shuck off his clothes. When Jaime was finally down to his trunks, Brienne grabbed his ruined hand, squeezing it in excitement. “We’ll go together, shall we?”

“Yes,” Jaime replied, his heart full. “We’ll go together.” He took a deep breath and looked over at her. His wench. His Brienne. His Brienne who was willing to marry him. To marry him.

“OK then,” she cried, breaking through his reverie, her eyes alight. “Together then. One … two… three...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, the cliff scene was all set to be a one-off, and then it morphed into this 60,000 word behemoth that just about murdered me. Luckily for me, you were there to keep me company on this crazy hell-ride. Thank you so very much for diving off of this cliff with me.
> 
> I am particularly grateful to those who took the time to read and leave kudos. And a very special shout out to my own Great Council of commenters who, time and time again, kept me from totally losing my shit and torching this whole damn thing -- much like crazy Melisandre when presented with Stannis’ progeny; or crazy Dany when she heard the bells of King’s Landing; or crazy Cersei at the Sept of Baelor (hmm… speaking of overused tropes and raging misogyny, lol). 
> 
> And now my tale is told; and like Jon Snow, I shall retreat to The Wall for a bit. To do what, I’m not sure. But more than likely it will not involve crying into my laptop as I rewrite the same damn sentence a million times until it ceases to resemble written language. Writing -- it’s more fun than a barrel of ice spiders ... but not by much. 
> 
> Thanks again for your support. I truly appreciate it. All the best, Hildy B


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